


Rule 10

by skellerbvvt



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: BDSM, Comment Fic, M/M, Underage but not underage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-31
Updated: 2016-09-03
Packaged: 2018-08-12 02:52:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 167,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7917634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skellerbvvt/pseuds/skellerbvvt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a copy-paste version of Rule 10. Nothing has been edited, changed or looked at.</p><p>For those that don't know what Rule Ten is, see the end notes. Treat this as Enlightenment period found literature and roll with it. If there are tags I forget send me a line and I'll fix it. </p><p> </p><p>http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html is where a copy-over exists. None of the links work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

### Jan. 13th, 2011 04:48 am (local)

 

The kid is at his house more than anywhere else, these days. Arthur isn't a babysitter or some after school care center. The kid is old enough to take care of himself until his parents came home if they came home. Arthur had seen the house key. He'd dropped Eames off plenty of times: he knew Eames could entertain himself. He could watch television, surf the Internet, do whatever it was teenagers did on there.

But he can also do that at Arthur's house, and then, at least, Arthur knew where he was. And if Eames is at his house then Arthur is free of ridiculous moments of worry. What Eames would eat for dinner, for example. If Eames is going to sleep in an empty house without anyone asking about his day or his homework. Invasive worries that are better solved than harbored, and that was Arthur problem, right? Arthur's problem was that he just couldn't leave things alone . He couldn't see something that needed to get done and then not do it . It was why he made a six figure salary, yes. But it's also why he basically had either a...well. Arthur wasn't comfortable with thinking of Eames as any kind of familial member. A permanent houseguest, to be politic.

"I still say the Kinect is a bunch of bollocks," Eames, who had never been politic in his life, said. "I don't know why you got one."

Arthur got one because he wants a holodeck. He's in the year 2011 and cars barely get good millage out of fossil fuels, much less hover. So, by God, if there was something out there that in any way resembled virtual reality? It belonged to him . Eames, apparently, had too much pride to play Dance Central. Eames tended towards churlish about the entire idea. Arthur kept it anyways. Arthur favored games that are also talking points, that one could have to go at a friendly gathering so no one got bored. Arthur was very good at parties, actually. He made sure everything kept moving smoothly and no one was left in a corner wanting to leave.

 

Which, to reiterate, was Arthur's problem.

"Then play one of those other ones," Arthur said. He gestured to the media cabinet. He'd purchased the games Eames tended to mention because he was a good host. And he gestured while he made dinner because otherwise, Eames would just eat junk. It was insult enough to leave somebody with a tenuous grasp on home life without also depriving them of basic nutrition. Arthur's mom wouldn't have left Eames to eat pizza. Arthur mom used to pack him extra snacks so he could feed all the people she couldn't. So Arthur made dinner.

 

And Eames was growing. He basically needed to grow into his everything . He was, at the moment, stuck with all these limbs and ears and lips, and in another few years or so he was going to look fucking amazing. B ut right now the only reason that Arthur and he didn't look the same age (Arthur's baby face will be a godsend when he's 40, but as is...?) is because Eames had all these things that he didn't quite fit into yet. He liked Arthur's home gym well enough, in any case. Or maybe he just wanted to tempt Arthur into actual truth to the worst of what people would think of this arrangement. The term kept boy had ben thrown around more than once, and if Arthur isn't fucking a teenager (because he is not going to fuck a teenager ) then it is not because the teenager isn't trying.

Eames hasn't outright asked, but his flirting was blatant and untried. It's Arthur's job to pretend it isn't there. In his experience, one needed to pretend some things weren't happening in order to get by. And one of those is that the son of a co-worker wasn't in his house, slumped low on his couch, all tattoos and a thin shirt. That he hasn't basically been at Arthur's house every single night for the last three months. Another of those things is that eventually Arthur will be required to do something about that.

Eames had been that guest in the corner who'd wanted to go home. Somehow Arthur talking to him and making sure he found something to do had turned into this. Arthur couldn't even fully remember the conversation but...well.

"Only for an hour," Arthur reminded, "you've got to edit your paper."

"My paper is fine," Eames grumbled.

"Eames, to say the least of it, the education system has done you no favors when it comes to commas. Don't give me that."

Eames shifted up until his head was upside down and his chest was just one long arch. "Why don't you do like that movie, yeah? Circle all the SPAG and typos in red and spank them out of me?"

Arthur snorted, "My hand would go numb. You know the rules. You come over here, you finish your homework and you do it well. You don't do it? You go home."

Eames sighed and sank back into the couch.

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

### Jan. 13th, 2011 04:49 am (local)

  
"I know the rules, okay?” Eames grumbled, “You made me write them out and everything. Rule One: I can sleep in the guest bedroom if my folks are out of town. Rule Two: No smoking in the house. Rule Three: If I don't come over sober you'll make me do gardening. Rule Four: If I'm out of it, I damn well better come here even if I have to call you at 3 am to pick me up."

Before it'd happened Arthur has said Eames should call him if he was in a dangerous situation. It was a blanket offer Arthur made to most of his friends. And he'd made it assuming Eames would go to bonfires and get drunk, maybe high, and need a sober ride.

 

He hadn't counted on Eames having classmates with access to actual drugs. He really hadn't counted on Eames taking them, and...well. Eames had called while gnawing on a pacifier and Arthur hadn't wanted to bar him from the house because... so when Eames was still coming down Arthur'd make him pull weeds, or clean the bathroom and kitchen floor with a toothbrush.

"I don't know why you do that," Arthur said.

Eames didn't have an answer, just kept on with the rules. "Rule Five: Clean up after myself or hire somebody to do it for me. Rule Six: All homework must be completed to His Royal Highness' satisfaction. Rule Seven: I have a fucking bedtime like I'm still in nappies, and said ridiculous bedtime is ten o'clock on weekdays, and the late, exciting hour of twelve on weekends, oh lucky happy joy."

"You need eight hours of sleep, Eames," Arthur said.

"I read the bloody articles, didn't I?" Eames's said. He'd demanded to know why he had a bedtime and Arthur had set him down in front of six scientific studies about the importance of sleep for teenagers and threatened to make him write a report on it. So Eames, if he stayed over, went to bed at 10:00 on weekdays. He didn't much stay over on weekend.s

"And Rule Eight," Eames finished, "try to either call before coming, but at the very least knock." He had stopped playing Mario Kart and the pause screen was just sitting there as Arthur finished putting their burgers together and shoved a giant pile of fries onto Eames plate.

Eames busied himself with quitting out the game. Arthur rubbed his forehead. He was a grown man, and sometimes grown men had other grown men pinned to the floor and were fucking them like they wanted a new rug, and did not want sixteen-year-old gangly sexually unsure kids bursting in and staring at them for several beats too long before quietly stepping out.

("You got a brother?" The guy he'd picked up had asked, as Arthur had tugged up his pants, still hard, but what was he going to do? "Jeeze, this is..."

"I've got to talk to him," Arthur had covered. The guy'd thankfully taken the message to clear out. Arthur'd caught Eames at the street corner that took forever to change lights. Eames had been, ridiculously, outright pouting. Arthur, at the time, had known about Eames crush, but that had been a step too far.

"Come on," Arthur had said, "let's go get dinner."

"Not hungry."

"You ate four plates of spaghetti yesterday. You are always hungry."

"Whatever," Eames had said. He'd shoved his hands in his pockets and moped all the way to the restaurant, but eaten and gotten over it. He'd gotten over it.)

Eames flopped down into his chair. Glared at the glass of milk.

"Rule Nine," Arthur said, "you get a beer when you can buy it."

 

Eames gave him a face.

"Don't want your American piss-water anyways," He grumbled, staring into his milk. "One of these days I'll be bigger than you and you'll regret all this healthy eating rot.”

"And then I could point out that left to your own power you'd be a stunted little runt," Arthur retorted.

Eames smiled to himself. "We're still waiting on Rule Number Ten since you love round numbers and rules."

"I have no doubt something will come up. Summer is approaching after all."

Eames paused and fiddled with his burger. “Is it? Hadn't noticed."

Which meant that he'd been obsessing about it for awhile, quietly to himself. Eames did that about the strangest sorts of things.

"What?" Arthur asked.

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

### Jan. 13th, 2011 04:52 am (local)

  
"What? Nothing. Summer's great. Gonna get myself a tan or something. Beaches in America have sun and girls and whatever. Back home it was all pebbles and fog. Can't exactly lounge around in that, can you?" Eames always did call Britain home, even though he'd been in America two years now.

"Stop with the bullshit," Arthur said.

  
Eames stared at his burger. Then looked up and slouched in his chair like casual was some sort of coat you could put on. "Right well. Am I still...do I still get to come here, when school's out? Maybe I'll get a job too, huh? Get a car. Or, get someone to teach me to drive and then get a car. Forget it."

  
Eames bit into his burger and looked out the window, faux casualness tossed aside again.

"If the choice is between you being here and you making due, then be here. You're about..." Arthur held his fingers close together, "this close to becoming a complete delinquent. We should get you a job. It'd be good to keep you out of trouble."

"I don't get in that much trouble."

"Not anymore, you don't," Arthur agreed.

  
\---

  
Eames used to get in trouble.

  
It wasn't any of that "just wants attention" bullshit, or whatever. It hadn't worked, anyways. His mum didn't stop being gone all the time, even if he had been gunning for some maternal love or whatever, so there wasn't a point in acting out. And the Prick she'd re-married (after divorcing, having a fling, having Eames, dating two other blokes, then deciding she shouldn't have left the Prick in the first place) was still a Prick. Didn't beat Eames, or insult him or nothing, not like...a good story or whatever. Eames wasn't some abused kid looking for acceptance or a family or whatever. His mum was fine, just busy, and the Prick was just a prick who looked at Eames like he was a stranger in their house. And so they'd all moved to America to pretend like nothing had ever happened, ever.

And America wasn't like on the telly. The people weren't glamorous, just wankers like everywhere on the planet. And they all thought he'd be all posh or whatever, since he was British, and he wasn't that kind of British. There were these girls hung on thinking he'd be fucking Mr. Darcy, or whatever. He didn't watch Doctor-bloody-Who. Like, the idea that there were more than just BBC approved accents blew people's fucking lids off.

  
Anyways.

He'd gotten ~in trouble~ because he'd been bored, was all. He wasn't going around picking fights or nothing. He'd take a bloke down if it came down to that, sure. You couldn't just get walked all over. He hadn't gotten snagged for stealing nothing because nobody'd caught him at it yet. It was just little things, besides. He wasn't grabbing people iPhones, or Blackberries and selling them off. He grabbed CD's, sometimes (since, whatever, digital age), cash if someone had it, and it weren't their lunch money or whatever. It wasn't like they earned it. Weed or fags if he saw any. He didn't steal any harder stuff unless it was one of the prats with the Hummers had anything. Then he might snatch it just to see them sweat the loss.

  
And hey, he'd cut that out almost entirely, alright? Arthur caught him at the really hard stuff, he'd make Eames regret it, and it wasn't like Eames wanted to be out of his skull alone in his bedroom. That was just pathetic.

Mostly he took oddities, trucker hats and funny pins and nice pens, the odd scarf, maybe a ring from a pretty girl with too many, maybe the notebook of someone who just doodled all day, maybe a cupcake, or some biscuits. The lockers were just too easy to get into once you got the trick of it, and he could pick a mark, memorize their schedule, and then bump to their locker when they wouldn't be around, and everyone else was distracted in the press and shift of people rushing to their next class.

What he got in trouble for was telling teachers to piss off, because they thought that America was the only damn country on the planet. Like World War II started with the attack on Pearl Harbor, or whatever. And it was like Eames cared all that much, but Grapes of Wrath was just a terrible, boring book with the fucking turtle, or whatever, and there were authors besides Shakespeare and James Joyce (Who was bloody Irish and yes that was different) and if one more person mentioned the Queen to him he was going to punch them in the eye.

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

### Jan. 13th, 2011 05:15 am (local)

Re: OH EAMES.

And well, he'd gotten in trouble for that too. Attitude, they said. Sent him to the school counselor and that hadn't even been worth the time of mentioning. He wasn't upset over the "grand scale changes in his routine," he was just bored.

But then...then there was Arthur, and Arthur wasn't trying to be his dad, or big brother, or anything, or a friend, or teacher. He was just Arthur Who could take Eames snip and turn it back on him without getting all "you watch your words, young man" or trying to be "hip or cool". He just a dry, quite sort of wit and Eames liked it. He appreciated it and how Arthur didn't treat him like someone's son, some dumb kid, he called Eames, Eames instead of "Oh, Charles" like his mum, or worse, the prick's last name, which was just an insult.

Arthur could actually talk about literature like a human being, instead of a machine made to find tropes and vocabulary words, and he and Eames had started this whole arrangement by having these ridiculously rambling talks on Arthur's couch and Arthur looking at his watch like he'd never seen it before. "2 am. Jesus, okay you need to get up in four hours for school. You want to call your mom, or, well, does she know where you are?"

"She doesn't care," Eames said, hefting up his mobile. "You see a call from her? She knows the number."

And Arthur hadn't said, "of course she cares, don't be dramatic." He'd just frowned. "Well, let's drop you off, then."

And eventually "drop you off" had turned into "I've got a guest bedroom." and now Eames had his own closet here, partly because Arthur would frown at what he was wearing and then take him out to get him an "acceptable wardrobe", so Eames had his own closet here, his own kind of shampoo and soap in the shower and his favorite kind of cereal up in the kitchen cabinet.

He'd sort of thought, for awhile, that maybe Arthur was just being nice to him because he wanted to fuck him, or something. Which, yeah, at first, skeeved Eames the fuck out, but as it kept not happening, and as Arthur kept not even bringing up sex as a topic, or do anything to hint that he was doing anything but just giving Eames a place to crash.

Which meant that eventually, Eames had realized he'd been maybe sort of hoping Arthur would make a move, first to prove himself right, but then just because Arthur was fit, and just sort of got him, and really, he was the only person giving Eames a lick of attention for himself. Eames mum still hadn't noticed he'd gotten tattoos yet, and if the prick had, he didn't care.

And of course, when Eames wanted something he couldn't help but planning how to get it. He didn't always go through on his plans, but he couldn't help making them. Bulking up a bit had been the first step, because no one wants to sleep with some noodle-armed little kid, and that time he'd...when he'd walked in on Arthur (jealous, he'd been jealous not shocked or disturbed or disgusted, he'd been seething, frustratingly jealous. Who was that pounce to go and have Arthur, when Eames couldn't? Who was Arthur to pick up some seedy bloke when Eames was right there? He could be convenient. He could do that.) the guy had been big, built. So Arthur liked his men big, so Eames was going to get big. He liked working out, anyways. He liked winning over his body's tiredness and soreness and making something desirable out of it.

Sometimes he thought maybe he saw Arthur looking at his shoulders for a second too long, but maybe he was making that up. Arthur was a sneaky bastard.

Eames ate quietly and Arthur didn't try and change that. They had ice cream for dessert, since Arthur loved ice cream and Eames loved watching Arthur eat ice cream (even if it was out of a bowl and not on a cone so he'd get to see him lick it) all tongue and spoon and lips and sitting Eames arse down to do the rest of his homework.

Eames would do his homework so much more quickly if Arthur would just take him up on any of his steadily-more-plainly-worded offers. But he never did, so Eames had to struggle through it (fucking English language, with all those vowels and stupid illogical rat-bastardry spelling) without the promise of maybe even a hand job if he got it right or a hand to his arse if he didn't.

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

### Jan. 13th, 2011 06:13 am (local)

Re: Uh..Warning: drug use?

  
When Eames was a kid, back when he and his mum honestly and really had each other, fuck everyone else, back when he stole cash to sneak into his mum's pocketbook, because she was a bit crap at finances and numbers (but that was fine. No one was perfect. She could spell, at least.) so wouldn't notice if 20 quid showed up once and again, and when she went on her cleaning sprees, if she found a few rings or earrings that she surely must have had previously, but misplaced, well, then she'd just smile and put them away non-the-wiser. Back then Eames used to think he was a character in a book, right? When she was off at work (because they had to eat, and the odd bit of extra paper wasn't going to change that, just make the ends meet a bit faster was all) he was bumming around their crap flat (they had an electric kettle and a microwave and nothing else in the kitchen. That was how crap their flat was) after school and think that he was actually going to end up the hero of some other world, and he could bring his mum and put her somewhere posh, with ovens and whatever, while he fought monsters and got some fit chick in the deal.

Now Eames doesn't think that so much now that he and his mum are already in different worlds, and he didn't even get to be the hero out of it, but he did get Arthur. But sometimes he thinks, you know, like right when he kinda woke up but was still in bed, and sort of still dreaming, but you have to wake up? Then he'll think about all those pretend adventures, he had back in his crap flat, and now he takes Arthur with him on them. To fight cyborg dragons and dinosaurs with machine guns and people who turned their loved ones into robots so they could keep them for a bit longer, but the robots were evil.

And then Arthur would fuck him if he were the hero of someplace and not just fucked up kid. Not too fucked up, no, but enough to have his only friend be a fucking 25-year-old with no interest in him at all. But Eames could change that, he just needed to figure out who it was that Arthur wanted to fuck, and then just be that person. Easy enough. Teenagers? Right. Eames figured, hey, teenagers were already like...six different people. One for the parents, one for the teachers, one for the unknown public, one in their heads, one for their friends, and one for possible fuck buddies. Eames was behind, really, on this whole shifting identities thing. But it'd be fine.

\---

 

Eames usually did a work-out while Arthur read over his homework. Eames was smart, he just didn't care, and while Arthur couldn't make him care about school in general, he could make Eames care about syntax out of sheer irritation with Arthur correcting him.

Arthur's hand paused over the red pen momentarily then snorted to himself and went to work on Eames extremely unhappy report on how, there were racist themes in _To Kill A Mockingbird_ but mostly about how the supersaturation of the average American High School with trite bland, meaningless essays about the importance of racial equality completely undercut the actual importance. Arthur rubbed his forehead and started cutting out the ranty bits because one should argue one's case, not scream it.

When he finished, he'd go in and spot Eames, while Eames tried to...he wasn't sure what he was trying to do anymore, not really. He watched Arthur a lot, but it wasn't like he was just soaking up the viewing, it was like he was actually looking for something, and Arthur had no idea what. Teenagers were complicated. And Arthur wasn't here for guidance, not really. If Eames wanted to walk out the door and get completely smashed at some party, then Arthur wouldn't stop him, Eames had the right to make his own terrible choices if he wanted. All Arthur had done was offer Eames a place to be, someplace he was welcome. Arthur's house had rules, mostly because he thought Eames might like some rules. Nothing ridiculous, but the situation would be weird enough without some guidelines. And Eames did like the rules. He complained about them bitterly, but he followed each and every one without any threat needed. He just did them.

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

### Jan. 13th, 2011 07:53 am (local)

Re: This Is Just a Thing To Tide You Over Until Foxxcub Blows Me Out Of The Water

I Believe in you bb!Eames. I believe you can Get This Done.

Even after they added Rule Number Eight Eames had kept following the rules, which Arthur had sort of expected to go the other way, honestly given Eames behavior outside of his house. But Eames did clean up after himself, and did his homework, and the two times he'd come over either plastered or blitzed he hadn't made a bother of himself and then had woken up the next morning to mow the lawn and water all of Arthur's plants. Eyes bloodshot, and wincing with a headache.

The second time he'd called Arthur, being in some run down hole-in-the-ground. Arthur hadn't yelled at him, just opened his car door and Eames had slumped into his passenger seat, loose and lazy and smelling of pot, smoke and liquor. Arthur hadn't been overly worried because the one time Eames had cracked out he'd been so miserable he'd never done it again. Which was good.

Arthur had gotten him home and gotten Eames some water, made him drink some water and put him to bed. Which might not have been the most responsible thing to do, but his power over Eames extended as far as his front door. He could tell Eames parents, and he would if Eames actually got himself addicted to something. He would drag him to a rehab center personally.

But Eames followed the rules, which was...interesting. Arthur thought, maybe, he could make more. Tell Eames to behave in school, and Eames would. Tell Eames to go out and make friends and Eames would try, but that would lead somewhere Arthur wasn't sure he wanted to commit to. Or commit Eames to.

He was just thankful Eames hadn't seen the 20-minute prelude to Arthur fucking that guy on the floor, wherein Arthur had wrestled, pinned and talked the guy into pushing his ass up and begging for it. For the best, didn't need to give the kid any more ideas.

He went into the home gym and Eames was just finishing his wide-grip pull-up reps. Arthur generally worked out less for muscle definition and more for general health- cardiovascular, flexibility and endurance. Which meant, for him, a lot more jogging, jump rope and yoga. Eames was working to get built, which meant a lot of sets of short, strenuous reps. Push ups and sit ups, pull-ups and weight lifting, squat and shrugs, lunges, and rounding it out with plenty of pasta and chicken

He did it with determination but none of Arthur's weights were nearly heavy enough now, and Arthur thought about getting more, but at that point he should get Eames a personal trainer so he didn't injure himself, but at that point Arthur should just get him a penis-car a gym membership and a lot of tight tank tops and rugged, ripped tight jeans and have him sucking cock nine hours of the day.

Arthur considered that a moment as he stood behind Eames and spotted the squat, Eames with the heaviest set of weights, breathing heavily, sweat dripping down his forehead, down his spine and when this is done Arthur will make sure he does a proper cool down, does his stretches and grabs a shower, because Eames doesn't think about these things.

Eames is watching him, though, in the mirror, looking at Arthur like a goal and Arthur keeps his eyes on what he needs to, Eames posture and how he sinks, the spread of his legs and making sure he doesn't strain something.

It's routine, in its way, this frustration is his stomach, this itch in his fingers and palms, the greedy press of his tongue against the back of his teeth. But not yet. He can't yet if he can at all. And maybe Eames thinks that's what he's waiting for- but Arthur's not waiting for anything. Waiting implies expectation, and he expects nothing. He wants plenty. But he expects nothing except his rules. His power only extends to the front door, but it is absolute.

Eames cleans up when he's done-Rule One. Heads off to take a shower and Arthur watches him go in the mirrors and then goes back to his room to change and get his exercises done for the night, so Eames can finish editing his paper, print it off and go to bed. They'll wake up tomorrow and eat breakfast and Arthur will drop Eames off at school on his way to work. The same routine as practiced as Arthur's exercises.

And the frustration will be a third passenger, sitting there in the backseat, silent and just...being.

 

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

### Jan. 13th, 2011 11:18 am (local)

Re: MOAR TOMORROW

  
Eames had the rules in a nice tidy little notebook. The one in his pocket that he kept in his back pocket. Mostly is was doodles, just...random little sketches. But the first page was the rules in Arthur' shand. Arthur had pulled out the notebook from his desk and written them down so Eames wouldn't forget. Not that Eames could.

" **One:** When your parents are in town you will sleep at your home, otherwise you may use my guest room.

" **Four:** When you need me, you will call.

" **Six:** You must complete your homework to my satisfaction, regardless of how much work that entails.

He has the first seven in his book written in Arthur tight, elegant, conservative fountain-pen scrawl. None of the rules are just for Arthur's house.

The first just says "go home" and the guest room is close. Close to something like home. Something like what he's been looking for since his adventures on the couch in the crap flat with no stove or oven and only an electric kettle and a microwave.

Eames could follow them outside of the house. If he wanted. Sometimes he sits in class with his fingers against the top of the notepad and thinks...thinks he could...do any of those things. He could just do them, and it would...would be like something permanent. A home he could take around with him in his pocket.

He picks up the notepad and rubs his fingers along the cover.

Fuck, when did he become like this? Why does he care? It's just a place to crash. A person who will talk to him and a nice telly and just...away from everything. Yeah, he's like to shag Arthur.But he shouldn't... need like this. It was pathetic.

Arthur's room was just down the hall and Eames always thought of what it would be like to get up and pad over to Arthur;s room and just...climb into his bed. Not do anything. Not like, crawl in and suck him off or anything (well, maybe sometimes he thought that and he could too. He could suck Arthur off, he'd been practicing. Tried not to think about it as getting good for Arthur, but it was.) but just climb in and lie there.

Arthur would probably just tell him to go back to his room, though, wouldn't he? And in his head, right? Eames could say something like "Been awhile since you had a shag, eh?" and Arthur would maybe huff or mutter a bit, but Eames glossed over that part until Arthur started holding his down, held his arm and felt the muscle swell between his palms.

He'd like that, get all hard for it, for Eames, and just...whatever. Or maybe they wouldn't fuck and Arthur would crack an eye open and then just go back to sleep, and Eames could stay there. For a bit.

Sometimes...like, in weird moments, he'd be thinking about it and then in his head, instead of any of the stuff that normally happened, Arthur would tell him that he could sleep at the end of the bed. Like a dog or something. Eames would do it. Just curl up at the end of the bed next to Arthur's feet, and Arthur would go back to sleep and Eames could just picture himself, curled up there and just thinking I've got to keep his feet warm like it mattered.

But Arthur probably would just tell him to go back to this room. But maybe, maybe Arthur wouldn't wake up and Eames could just have a few seconds? A minute or two? Just a little...a little bit of himself. Wouldn't get under the blankets, just lie there and stare at him and then go back to this room and it'd be fine. Arthur would never have to know.

Eames rubbed his thumb down the side of the notepad.

A day. He'd follow Arthur's rules. All of them, all the time, for a day, and if he managed it, then...then he'd try it. He'd sneak in and wouldn't even get on the bed. He'd just go to the door. If he followed Arthur;s rules for a whole day, then he'd walk to Arthur's door and wouldn't open it, or anything, just get to the door. He could pretend he was going to the bathroom if something went wrong.

One day of Arthur's rules, all day, and then he'd get up after he was sure Arthur was asleep and go to his door. That's what he'd do, be better than lying here and thinking about it all the damn time. Better to do something. Arthur wouldn't even need to know. He could just have that, and it'd be fine. He wasn't sure, though, which one of those was the reward and which one the test.

 

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

### Jan. 13th, 2011 08:18 pm (local)

Re: I GOT UP EARLY FOR YOU PEOPLE. MOAR AFTER WORK.

  
Arthur would never really be able to point out if Eames were acting strangely. Eames was always at least partially strange and his strangeness fluctuated and changed depending on his mood and the sort of day he'd had Sometimes he could be charming, sometimes he could be a brat, sometimes he'd stick firm on the simplest points, other times he seemed he could just go along with anything. So there wasn't really such a thing as Eames acting out of character, because it just depended on, in a given situation, which character Eames was playing at the time.

Eames parents were in town again which meant he had to go sleep at home, which would explain his general crabbiness, but not the look of determined martyrdom. He'd just got in and sat down at the table and started working on it. Pulled out his books and everything. Normally he just grabbed the assignment and scribbled something out, but at the moment he seemed very nearly studious.

Maybe he had a crush on one of those kids who took their grade point average extreme seriously? That seemed more likely, Eames going to school and seeing some sweet his-age somebody in the front of the class and wanting to pull her pigtails. Arthur contented himself with imagining her in glasses and Eames awkwardly trying to figure out how to ask her out for a study date while talking about how wonderful whatever teacher was completely out of his ass.

And he'd called before coming over. Usually, he knocked, or called when he was at the door , and even then it was just an "I'm over here, yeah?"

Today Arthur had been getting the front door key when he saw Eames name on his cell phone. "You mind if I come over today?" Eames had asked like he hadn't since...ever.

"No. Why would I?" Arthur asked. "You come over anyways even if I did."

"I...uh. Right. Cheers. Be over in a few." A pause, then "Bye."

Which had been...odd...but maybe, for whatever reason, he wanted to be extra sure Arthur hadn't gone and pulled someone on a Wednesday.

Eames began clearing up immediately and tucked everything but the actual assignments and took his bowl of soup to the sink, washed it out and put it in the dishwasher without a word of complaint. "I'll just. Uh. Work-out a bit before finishing up and heading out."

Usually, Arthur had to be the one to look at the time and drive Eames home despite Eames bitter complaining. Had Arthur done something?

Oh. Oh, he was trying to be good , not just follow the rules but _follow the rules_. Arthur lost track of his breathing for a few seconds and had to sit down.

Arthur had fantasized, of course, he had, he wasn't a robot. And maybe if he'd had anything resembling vanilla sex this wouldn't be a problem, but he hadn't, hadn't for years , and his urge was getting Eames on his knees and like it. To see all that young bulk restrained with carefully placed ropes and to have Eames strain and fight them for him, and fuck, that mouth around a gag? Sucking on it? That would be gorgeous.

Maybe he also daydreamed, sometimes, more about what would happen afterward. An Eames at peace with himself-however briefly. Getting to take care of him with more than just his presence and the offer of his house, to get inside his head and dig out all the decaying parts. Fill up all those spaces with Arthur and-

Which was almost worse, somehow. He couldn't drag Eames into both an adult relationship and a D/s one. Eames would either suffer through something he didn't enjoy or run away and then he'd think he had nowhere to go. And kids do stupid shit when they think they have nowhere to go. At least if Eames tried to suffer on, Arthur would notice and stop , he wasn't a moron. He could tell when someone was in-scene and when they were faking it.

But part of him...the greedy one, just pointed out at how well Eames followed the rules , how hard he worked in the gym, even though it hurt, even though he ached and winced afterward, and how euphoric he looked from the endorphins, how he seemed...settled. Fit into his skin a bit better, until he worked himself out of shape again.

Arthur turned and grabbed another beer, because it was that sort of night, and sat down to check through Eames work.

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

### Jan. 14th, 2011 06:16 am (local)

Re: I'm In My Boxers, Drinking Ale and Porning. I Swear I'm Not A 30 Year Old Man.

  
Eames has his hand on the door. He's had to wait a fucking week for this shit, become everyone had been at home, and he's had to lie in that stupid room, with the stupid sheets that are unfamiliar to him as...as... French , and the carpet that's scratchy and thin under his feet. He hates that room, hated the way the window isn't in the right place, and he always feels like his body is oriented incorrectly, and how all the noises are just...off.

But now he's back here, where he belongs--no, fuck, that's stupid. No. He's back at Arthur's house, and he has his hand on Arthur's bedroom door. He's not going to turn the handle or knock or even lean against the wood. He's just going to think about it, standing here sort of maybe half wishing Arthur would open the door and find him here, but mostly wishing he won't.

God, he could just open it right now if he wanted. He could open it and...and just see. Just take a peek. See if Arthur slept on his back, or starfished, or curled up around his pillow, or...he just wanted to see.

Eames looks at the handle and then pulls back his hand.

He's followed Arthur's rules for a whole day, what about another week? Fuck, a week without smoking? With pretending his homework mattered to him at all?

And then there was Rule Number Four, which, in Eames notebook, was simply "When you need me, you will call." it was about drinking, so Eames wouldn't do anything stupid, but it isn't phrased like that. It could be about anything. A week. He'll do it for a week. He'll...then he'll open the door. If he can manage a week, he'll open the door and see how Arthur sleeps.

But now he's too jazzed up to sleep, and he doesn't want to...fuck this up? This is him? The kid who doesn't want to make a fuss ? This is who he is now? Soon he'll be some goody-two-shoes licking at Arthur's feet for just a scrap of attention-

Eames stumbled on his way back to his room. He gets hard so fast, he's dizzy with it. He kneels on the carpet and presses the heel of his hand to his dick, grabbing onto the molding, trying to breathe through the sudden, sharp epiphany of arousal, because he would like that. He would do anything, he thinks, maybe, for...for that and that's ridiculous. It's barmy, but that doesn't change that fact that he wants it to be true.

He squeezes his eyes shut, gets up and heads back to his room. His guest room, where he feels like he belongs, but he doesn't. He's just a guest, a dumb fucked-up bastard who Arthur is minding. Whatever. It's fine. He'll figure this out.

Arthur likes...he likes biscuits, and notebooks, and...books. And nice shirts. Eames needs to do more research. More serious, actual research, and then he'll get this. If Arthur doesn't turn him on his front and takes what he wants, even if...if all this shit in his head never happens and Arthur...but yeah, that;d be good too. Arthur just crowded over him, jerking him off, Eames returning the favor. He could deal with that. Could hold Arthur down if that's what he wanted, but Eames didn't think it was.

Arthur didn't look like he wanted Eames to put him in his place. He looked like he had somewhere he wanted to keep Eames, someplace he wanted to put him, install him, maybe, like an appliance somewhere in his flat. And Eames is okay with that. Appliances have a purpose, after all, and be better that way And it's not like that's what it actually is because sometimes there's something else there. Something like affection. So if Arthur wants to install him somewhere in his bedroom, tied up, or chained up, or on a collar and leash tied to the bed ( _fuck, fuck, fuck_ he needs, **fuck** ) then he's open for that.

If Arthur just wants to walk into Eames room whenever he wants an itch scratched, then Eames is a teenager, he's all about scratching itches.

He flops down on his bed. But, again, more likely it's nothing. Eames is twisting it out of proportion, a cartoon-character thought. Arthur just looks at Eames like he's a kid who needs a hand. Not, you know, pity, because Eames wouldn't put up with that shit for anything. But more like whatever this is is just a pit stop or something. A commercial break, and _fuck that noise._

 

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

### Jan. 14th, 2011 07:37 am (local)

Re: Apparently This Fic Is Not Nearly As Long As I Thought It Was. Thanks, InceptionWips.

I love you Twitterverse.

Eames starts by reading Arthur's books instead of playing video games. At first, he just does it to maybe grab Arthur's attention, but then the book has to go and fucking be good , and then he stops sneaking glances at Arthur because Ender is actually kind of awesome and Eames needs to know what's going on. It's exactly the sort of book he used to want to be as a kid, maybe, but in his world, there would be a lot less mental torture and a lot more fighting off green goo monsters with glass heads and pink brains that you can see working from the fifth dimension.

He's so caught up that he doesn't even realize he's eating dinner, just putting the food in his mouth and chewing because he distantly remembers Arthur told him to and there's a blanket over his legs like his someone's nan, but he doesn't care, but this is fucking brill, and it's less that he wants to know what will happen next, and more than he wants to move in somewhere between the sentences and throw down roots.

It's Friday, so he doesn't have to do any homework, and he can stay up until twelve, and his mum and the prick are having a romantic weekend or something, so he does a quick workout and shower, then he's back on the couch. Arthur joins him soon enough, feet up on the table (because what the hell is the point of a table in the living room except to put your feet up on?) and Eames sort of freezes somewhere in the middle of the page, because Arthur is right there, his leg against Eames' feet, and then Eames go back to reading, turning over and putting his feet up on the couch arm in one movement, because he would do that. Nothing suspect about that.

"Nice," Arthur says, putting his book on Eames' shins.

"I was fine before you hogged up all the space."

"Sorry for sitting on my couch,' Arthur replies, easily, because Arthur can go along with anything and it's fucking irritating, but also probably for the best. He wouldn't deal with Eames well if he didn't.

"Piss off." Eames grumbles and settled back into his book, the paper well worn, and some scratches and indents and tears on the cover that aren't on any of Arthur's other books besides _Watership Down_.

Maybe Arthur has more, but they aren't in the bookcases down here. Then again Arthur turned one of the extra bedrooms into a library and Eames hasn't really been in there save when Arthur was giving him the tour, so maybe there are more of these books that Arthur clearly loved to near death. Eames would read all of those first, the ones Arthur had taken with him from move to move, that he'd tucked away with all his hardbacks and new editions, that were sneaking between the thick, intimidating girth of economic textbooks and photography portfolios, and manuals to various things, book series and literary-contemporary and basically a lot of stuff that just sort of look stuffy and boring to Eames, and he picked this one because it looked... out of place.

Eames peeks up and Arthur is still reading his book. Eames tilts his head to look at the title, but he can't quite get it.

Arthur lifts it. " _The Amber Spyglass_. I was trying to get through _The Poisonwood Bible_ again because it keeps being recommended, but then I got nostalgic." He shrugs and nods to _Ender's Game_. "It was either this or _Sandman_ and once I start reading _Sandman_ I don't stop."

"Never gotten into anything like that," Eames says. And it's not like he can't read, or he's dumb. It's just that the last thing he wants to do after having to read and discuss books that changed society, or whatever, is read more. And he knew there were books out there that weren't stuffy or old or whatever, but he'd never gotten the real idea of why the fuck bother. And he doesn't quite get it now, but there's a spark.

But this is research, and right now, all he knows is that Arthur likes books that fucking hurt you and know how to do it properly. And Eames sort of like that, how there can be some books out there with some goddamn teeth.

"Is that one less depressing than this one?"

"No," Arthur says. "That one is outright cheerful in comparison."

"You've got issues, man."

"Read your book, Eames."

Eames reads.

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

### Jan. 14th, 2011 10:41 am (local)

Re: In Other News: Bacon!

This is a bad idea. This is probably a very bad idea, actually, but he has a responsibility, and even though his power only goes as far as the front door of his house, that doesn't mean that his duty to Eames ends there as well. He can't stop Eames from smoking, or petty theft, or the drug use or the way Eames talks about his peers ( when he talks about his peers, which is rare), like the lot of them could move to some undiscovered island in Oceania and the world would be the better for it. He can't make Eames get friends, or pay attention in class, or have a crush on someone who wouldn't get into a court case for statutory rape (and he is not nearly young enough for a close-in-age exception, and while the regional age of consent is 16, if it went to court Arthur is still 25 and, fuck, Eames is sixteen , and he's messed up and doesn't know what he's doing and-)

This is a bad idea.

Arthur rings the bell, looking around the neglected lawn-scraggly with crabgrass. Not brown, properly, but it was clear that the people who lived here couldn't be bothered with their lawn.

"Um, yes?" The door opens, and there's Eames mother, looking like she's just gotten off work, which, of course, she had. She worked at Arthur's company, vying for the Chief Technical Writer position, which, in and of itself, not a bad thing. Arthur was hardly here to pass judgment, he wouldn't be surprised if Eames' mother worked all the time to try and make sure Eames didn't have to live somewhere without central heating.

"Mr...um..what are you?" She stumbled then opened the door, "Come in, come in. Sorry, I'm just a bit raddled. That new employee handbook, you know. You need to be so careful with the wording of some things."

"Mrs. Stevenson, I'm not here about work." He says and she tenses again and he looks at the wall. "It's about your son. You remember that party I had with the heads and aides of each department and their families?"

She frowns a moment, then nods, "What does that have to do with Charles?"

"You left him there. You and your husband were both a bit drunk and it was well past 2 am, and you just got in the car with the designated driver without thinking, but you left your son at my house."

She stared at him and moment, "He told me he was leaving. I thought, well I'm sorry about that, but isn't it a bit late to bring that up? I mean, it was three months ago? Oh! He didn't...he'd didn't break anything, did he?"

Arthur sighs. "Do you know where he is, right now?"

"School," She answers quickly.

"It's five. He hasn't been at school since 3:30. Right now he is still at my house, because if he isn't there, then he's going to go out and do something stupid out of boredom."

"He hasn't acted out in months." She says, "He really hasn't. He was a bit turned around after the move, but I think he's found himself again. Made some new friends, doing extracurricular-"

"And how many months has it been, exactly, that he's been behaving?

"Two, I guess. It hasn't been since February I've been called in."

"And have you met any of those friends? Seen any events?

"Well, no, but he's 16. He's hardly going to arrange a playdate."

Arthur sighed. "He doesn't _have_ friends, and I can safely tell you he doesn't do anything outside of school because he promptly comes over to my house. And he texts me when he gets to school, at lunch, and after he gets out, if not intermittently throughout the day."

"Why is he texting you?" She asked.

"He's texting me because he's been over at my house basically every afternoon and evening for the last three months and you haven't once called to see where he was," Arthur says, taking his phone back. "And I'm not here to point fingers. I don't know about your life, I just know about Ea...Charles. And I'm here because I'm worried about him. "

"Why has he been at your house?" She sat down and he followed her lead. This was a bad idea. This was a terrible idea. "Why is he texting you ?"

"He's been at my house because if he isn't there, then he's here. And as he told me, if he just comes home to an empty house every day he's going to lose it."

 

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

### Jan. 14th, 2011 10:42 am (local)

Re: MOAR TOMORROW

Arthur had a plan for this conversation. But he's trying very hard not to just yell. He wants to...to bully her into paying attention. Why haven't you noticed how poorly he's doing? Why aren't paying attention? He isn't here to do that. He can't be here to do that. He's here to try and mend a bridge that isn't his, but it needs doing. Arthur does what needs doing. He needs to know.

"And it's better my house then getting into worse trouble."

"Charles likes being off to himself." She said, absently, "He always has. I tried to put him in daycare and he used to describe it like it was torture. His kindergarten teacher actually wrote on his progress reports that he didn't get on with the other children. I didn't think anyone actually did that, but there you go. And after the move, he didn't... Why am I telling you this? Why did he start going to your house?"

"First to help with his statistics homework, honestly. And then I thought I could give him a job gardening since he looked like he could use some extra cash, why haven't you noticed he was gone?"

"He's always been off, doing things. I thought maybe he'd finally made some friends, but instead, he's...what? Gardening?

"He comes over to talk, and I feed him, make sure he does his homework, and send him back here." He's lying, but she hasn't noticed Eames was gone, and he's not going to help himself any saying he's letting the son of a woman he barely knows sleep over at his house. "Talk to him, Mrs. Stevenson. He's a lonely kid."

"And what do you get out of it?" She peers at him.

"Conversation with an intelligent young man, who could make him into something amazing if he lets himself," Arthur says. "And I thought I could just let it be, but I don't understand. I honestly don't understand how you don't... He's sixteen, and he needs someone to..." Arthur rubs his face. "Sorry, I didn't...I didn't come here to lecture you."

"You think that having three months with him makes you an expert on child rearing?" She asks, and it isn't in the tone he'd expect that question to be asked. The heavy sarcasm or incredulousness gone. He doesn't know quite what to call her tone.

"I'm not his parent. I'm not a parent. I am not pretending to be, but I can tell you that he needs one. I don't need to be one to have heard it when he said that he hated coming here to mean he hated coming here and having the house be empty for days at a time."

She's still frowning at him, and so he just gets up, "Just...I just came over to point this out. And ask you to talk to him. He's still a kid, he needs a family."

She doesn't say anything, just stares at him, and he can sort of see Eames in that look, like she could pick him apart and understand and Arthur just bids her a brief farewell and lets himself out, because that look on Eames means he isn't going to talk for awhile and he works through the tangle in his mind, and Arthur doesn't plan to be around when she does. He hopes...he hopes this ends well. And not with Eames being yelled at, or told not to come back to Arthur's house because then Arthur doesn't know what he'd do.

He has a responsibility, and he's going to stick to that responsibility because he's not going to pull Eames into an adult relationship just because Eames is lonely and confused and thinks that's what Arthur wants out of him. He won't kick Eames out because that's the exact way for this to all go very, very wrong. He just wants Eames to have more than one person as his support base, and he'll come over here and have the exact same conversation as many times as he needs to.

Arthur drives and when he gets to a stop light, he rests his head on the wheel. He squeezes his eyes shut and breathes. He needs to get back to his house, where Eames is, still reading- _Golden Compass_ now, because he wanted to know what Arthur was reading, and he seemed to be enjoying it for the most part.

He'll send Eames home tonight, or maybe Eames will go by himself since he's been on an obedience-kick which can only end in some sort of crash which Arthur is bracing himself for. Maybe if they can just talk to each other then Eames and his family will move forward. Maybe they've needed an argument.

Maybe he's made the situation worse. He knows he has, that is not a situation that is likely to improve unless it's addressed.

 

 

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

### Jan. 16th, 2011 05:31 am (local)

Re: Is It Painful For All Of You To Be So Wonderful *All The Time*?

Eames stood dripping at his doorway. It'd be raining for most of the day, shifting from a heavy gray torrential flood that had the streets turning silver with water, and black puddles spreading from the curb to an easier, somehow more depressing, constant drizzle. Right now it was just a steady biting sort of rain, the sky dark and the weather channel had said they could look forward to severe thunderstorms in the evening.

Arthur had been working from home all day, his desk stuck snug up against the window, looking out over his backyard. The grass a vicious green with the rain and his trees a soggy cardboard brown. He always got more done when it was raining, his world narrowing down to what was in front of him by the simple excuse that he couldn't go outside anyways.

"Where are your shoes?"

Eames is glaring at him, barefoot and dripping, his socks muddy and ruined. Arthur drags him inside and Eames goes. Jerks. Stops.

"What?" Arthur asks.

"You talked to my mum." Eames grits out like the words hurt coming out of his throat. "You talked to her about _us_."

"I did. We can discuss it after you're dry," Arthur says, quiet and Eames juts his chin out, dripping on his carpet.

"She thinks I need a _strong male figure_ my life. You want to guess who she chose?" Eames pushes into Arthur's space. "The fucking prick . I have to go on a fucking...fucking camping trip with him, or whatever this weekend. And he almost bit his own leg off to get away," Eames dragging his hands through his wet hair.

Arthur doesn't say anything and Eames drops his hands. "I had to sneak out of my room to come here. They locked the door. Did you know my bedroom has a lock on the outside and not the inside?"

"Eames-"

Eames jaw clicks shut and he glowers, looking every inch the wounded sixteen-year-old.

"Eames go dry off," Arthur repeats. "I'll make dinner, we can't talk, and then get you home."

"No, I'm not." Eames fists clench. "I won't go."

"Eames I agree we should talk, but you know the rules."

"Sod the rules." Eames looks like he wants to kick and punch everything, and he'd walked here, walked here in his stocking feet, and he looks so miserable that Arthur can't make good choices. "Sod them, you talked to her. You talked to _her_ , so you can't go back and say we can have a nice chat about it now. I'm not going back there tonight. You can either...I can either stay here or I'll... I don't care. I'll find someplace, but I'm not going back there tonight."

"Eames, you can either go home, or I will call your house and if you get permission, then you can stay," Arthur said. "After you shower and get some fresh clothing on."

Eames stands another moment and Arthur isn't going to get into a staring contest and as long as Eames is stalling he's getting what he wants, so Arthur turns away. "Eames, go shower and change in dry clothing. We can talk then."  
  
And then he turns back to his office, with-holding the fight Eames so clearly wants to get into because Eames will do what he's told, now, not because he's trying to be good, but because otherwise Arthur simply won't talk to him.

He'd sort of hoped that the conversation between Eames and his mom wouldn't end like this, but on the other hand, Eames had been restraining himself too tightly and Eames mom was clearly not a good communicator. But maybe Eames spending time with his step dad would be...useful. 

Likely she has no idea he's gone. Wouldn't know until morning, maybe, when they unlocked the door.  
  
But Arthur is going to call anyways and he's going to tell her where Eames is anyways. Then he's going to invite them out to lunch to talk about this more properly, since Eames isn't going to stop coming to Arthur's house, and Arthur doesn't have it in himself to stop him, and he needs...it's not that he needs them to be a whole and complete family unit.  
  
He just needs to know if they'll try.

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

### Jan. 16th, 2011 06:11 am (local)

Re: To Be Fair, I Thought This Was Just Going To Be Porn And Kink Too.

Eames is so mad it hurts.

Like he's full of something that burns under his skin and the only way to let it out is just to attack something, anything. It's a vicious, biting energy in his gut and he couldn't even _think_.

He'd trusted Arthur, he'd trusted him, and Arthur had been going behind his back and telling his mum...some shit. Eames didn't know but know she was telling him he couldn't impose on someone like this, that Arthur was a busy man and didn't need to be bothered.

And he'd asked, "What, like how you're too busy to be bothered?"

And then she'd look stricken. He'd been too mad to even feel bad about it. He would, later, but right then (right now ) he's ripping his clothing off in the bathroom and he wants to break the mirror and he wants to trash the room and then he wants to rip and punch and tear until he's burnt out and cold and doesn't feel anything, and he doesn't want to cry, he doesn't. He isn't going to stand in the shower and cry.

A fucking camping trip, over the weekend. With fucking...just being hated for two days. He was supposed to be here this weekend. He was supposed to have an entire two days with Arthur which was the only way he got through the bloody week for fuck sake. Through a week of teachers, and a student body that never even fucking talked to him, and boring classes, and frustrating busywork, from six am to three pm, the only thing worth looking forward to was coming here and then Arthur had to go and ruin that.

Eames felt caged in the shower, so he ripped himself out of it, and stomped to his...the guest room, tugging on clothing and throwing open the door.

Now he had to go out for his two detox days, his two relief days, his two good days, out to go fucking camping with the Prick. The Prick who would look at Eames like he's basically ruined his life by existing.

It's not Eames fault he was a prick and Mum left him, and she slept with someone and now Eames exists, and that she refuses to have a kid with him since she's "just not sure it's a good idea, Carl."

But the prick blames him. Talks about him when he thinks Eames can't hear. Called him useless, once, to Eames' mum. Flat out said: when are you going to cut your losses on that kid? If you hadn't decided to leave me we'd have our own children. Good kids, that were raised properly.

Eames had been being good, Eames was being good and this is what he gets. This is what he gets.

He wants to punch Arthur so badly his teeth hurt. But then he comes in and Arthur is making him tomato soup, the good kind, with the chunky bits of fresh tomato and peppers in, he smells garlic bread in the oven, and Arthur looks tired and Eames just stops. There are Bugles and the dip Eames would eat with a spoon if he could, and Arthur remembers, he remembers Eames comfort food-the American ones, anyways- and Eames feels like a dumb kid having a tantrum, suddenly.

"Arthur-" He begins, all that heat and energy turning cold and hard, like old oatmeal and Eames's head hurts.

"Please sit down, Eames," Arthur says, shortly, stirring the soup, and there's a little bowl of grated mozzarella on the counter and Eames plops into the chair, He doesn't want to eat because his stomach is entirely made of knots, but Arthur refuses to look at him and so he opens the bag and quietly begins eating, scooping up dollops of the dip, and it still tastes good, settles him somewhat.

Arthur pours the soup, sprinkles Eames' bowl heavily with cheese, and then pulls the garlic bread out of the oven, cutting them each a few crusty, buttery slices and set the plate in front of Eames with a spoon.

Eames eats and Arthur sits across from him, quiet. So Eames does as he was told and eats. The soup is warming, and he realizes he's freezing, that his brief shower didn't warm him up. He's shivering at the end of the table. Arthur looks up and get up and grabs him a blanket and fuck he doesn't deserve this. Eames wraps up and Arthurs put a hand to his cheek.

 

 

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

### Jan. 16th, 2011 06:42 am (local)

Re: Apparently LJ REALLY WANTED This Part Posted RIGHT NOW.

Jeeze LJ, wait till I finish the damn thing.

"You should have stayed in the shower longer," Arthur says as he removes his hand. "Eat your soup."

"I'm not hungry," Eames says because he's not. He wants Arthur to jokingly check him for a fever or something, anything for more skin contact.

But that's not how Arthur jokes and his hand still goes away and Eames feels cold and needy and hates himself for it.

"You're always hungry," Arthur says. Eames just shakes his head and Arthur sighs and straightens.

"Okay, you've showered, cleaned up and eaten. Do you want to call now, or am I taking you home?"

Eames grabs his spoon, but then realizes if he tries to eat now he's just going to throw up and he's going to have to make the call anyways. He never gets this up in knots for anyone else, not even his mum. It's just Arthur who can make him feel like a nervous, idiot kid. He doesn't want to be a nervous, idiot kid. He wants...he wants a lot, and he's not going to get any of it like this. Arthur doesn't want a brat, he wants a big man who reads books with teeth and won't have stupid parent drama.

"Can't I just stay?" Eames asks. "They won't notice, they haven't even called, or anything and I've been gone two hours now."

Arthur stares at him, quiet, and Eames wishes he would yell. He really wishes Arthur would yell because then he could yell back, but Arthur doesn't. So Eames' just stuffed full of eighteen different impulses and all of them suck.

Eames tugs his blanket around himself and pulls out his mobile. Arthur gets up and moves away and Eames pauses then doesn't dial, quietly waiting through an imaginary ring tone, and hunched up under his blanket.

"Put mum on the line." He says and then pauses, "No, you sodding...It's Eames, alright. Just put her on."

He has his whole imaginary fight with her on the line, doesn't play it up too much, whispered it like he doesn't want Arthur to hear, tugs up his blanket like he's ashamed, and then rounds it off by pleading. It's a good an act as any, he thinks, and Arthur continues to eat quietly. Eventually, Eames gets his "permission" and then closes the phone. "There, fine, she says we're going to need to have a talk or-oi!"

Arthur takes his mobile from him before he can put it away. Arthur shows him the "Recent Calls" screen, which doesn't have his mum anywhere on it and an embarrassing amount of Arthur.

"Nice practice run, now do it for real." Arthur dials the number for him and then places the phone next to his ear. Eames reaches up to grab it away and Arthur grabs his wrists, pins them to his knee and Eames swallows.

"Hello?" The prick answers.

"Put mum on the line."

"Who is this?" The Prick asks, and Eames nearly laughs.

"Fucking Eames, you prick, now give me my mum-"

"What, you can't even come out of your room? If you think she's going to make a second dinner just because you're being selfish-"

"I'm not in my room , you knob, so put her on the line already."

The prick does, because he doesn't want to deal with Eames anymore than Eames wants to deal with him.

"Charles?" His mum asks after he sits for a bit, the part where they burst into his room, find he's actually not there, and then come back, "Where are you? How did you get out?"

"Arthur's house," Eames says and he can feel her frown.

"Charles, I _told_ you, you can't just go to someone else's house without them inviting you. It's rude. Arthur likely was looking forward to a nice evening in, and now he has to babysit you. Is that fair to him? Charles, I really. I need this job."

He can hear the Prick yell "I am going to board up your windows," in the background.

Eames doesn't want to have this conversation with Arthur right there, staring right at him, wrists next to Eames' chin, pulse beating, and Eames can't do this.

"He's my friend, mum." Eames chokes and Arthur doesn't look away and his hand is still wrapped around Eames' wrists, and Eames could break away, but he doesn't. "Look, can we not do this now?"

"Charles, this really isn't acceptable." Like he's failed a project, or something, or he's got his elbows up on the table. "He's a busy man and he is a very important part of the company. He doesn't need you-"

"Tell him to come back immediately or he's...this is what I mean, you never try and punish him. My dad would have taken a belt to him ages ago." The Prick says, just loud enough to hear.

"Mum, I'm staying here tonight alright? Arthur invited me. So leave it alone."

 

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

### Jan. 16th, 2011 06:53 am (local)

Re: I'm Assuming I'm Just Not Getting Enough Angst In My Diet, So This Is Happening

"Eames, you aren't a kid anymore. You are coming home and we're going to talk about this or-"

"What, the Prick is interested now?"

"Don't call him that, Charles, he's your father."

"No, he's not. My father is some bloke you brought home from the pub one night, and no matter how we all pretend you two never split, you did and I happened, alright? I happened."

His mum is silent, because thus far he hasn't brought that up either, not allowed, not to her .

"I don't know you, and I don't like this. Stay there. I don't want to see you if you're going to be this way," She says and hangs up.

He clenches his jaw and eventually Arthur takes the phone away from his ear and sees the call ended. Eames turns his head and Arthur closes the phone and puts it in his own pocket.

"Eames-"

Eames looks off to the side because he's as good as trapped in the chair, he could break away, but he can't , so he doesn't and Arthur hasn't let go of his wrist yet.

"She said I could stay, alright?" He interrupts. "Did you hear? I got yelled at enough."

"I'm not yelling Eames."

No, it's worse. He's being quiet and reasonable and inescapable, and Eames can't deal with this right now. He tugs his arms, and for a moment Arthur's hands go tighter and that jets right up Eames' spine, makes him sit straighter pull back his shoulders and Arthur let's go like he's on fire. Eames wrist still tingles. He swallows, watching.

"You want me to heat up your soup?" Arthur asks, busying himself with cleaning up and Eames looks over at him and shoving down all the hard angry parts and the lumpy bits of something that looks too much like grief.

"No thank you." Eames says, "I'll just..." He gets up and nods to the hall.

"If you want," Arthur says, neutral and...cold...and Eames turns quickly and goes, because he really, really can't stand Arthur talking to him like every other adult on the planet. He can't.

"Sleep well," Arthur adds, and he means it. He always means shit like that, shit like 'have a good day" and whatever, he says it like it means something and Eames pauses in the hallway.

"Arthur." He says, and he's lost control over his voice and he knows Arthur must have noticed, because he's stopped washing dishes.

Eames doesn't know what to say, because he can't make words out of all this shit in his gut and head and chest and so he just stands there like the stupid as fucking shit dumb fuck he is and he feels damp hands on his shoulders and then Arthur is leaning forward and speaking quiet. Really quiet, just on this side of a whisper, like a secret.

"Eames, I want you to go back and take a proper shower, I want you to relax, warm up, and then when you've calmed down I want you to go to bed, lie down, and stop worrying."

There's an edge to his voice, and he's saying "I want" but it means, really something more like "you're going to do this." and all the muscle in Eames back relax and his head hurts less.

Arthur removes his hands and Eames goes.

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

### Jan. 16th, 2011 09:09 am (local)

Re: If You Were Wondering, I Had Nachoes For Dinner. If You Weren't, I Had Your Mom.

I'm going to also be playing Minecraft while I do this, as a warning

"Arthur," Eames had said, and for a moment he just sounded so lost, and young and desperate that there wasn't a single inch of Arthur's entire being that didn't want to go over there and offer comfort.

So he did, and he meant to go over there and be more...big brother-like, supportive friend-like.

But what comes out is his Dom voice, and that has been locked up in his stomach around Eames for ages, and clearly it can't handle it anymore.

He hasn't played in months, not since Eames walked in on him, and he feels like he's exercising every part of himself but one, which is atrophying and aching for the need of use. It just boils up, strong and easy. It's just so easy to tell Eames what to do, what Arthur wants out of him, and it's made even more delectable because Eames melts into the orders like he craves them. Which. He hadn't heard the full conversation with Eames' parents, but he'd gleaned enough. Which makes his own response...a bit terrifying.

  
Eames is the sort of sub-Arthur has always sort of wanted, (though if anyone had asked him he would have just started quoting Cake lyrics because otherwise, that was just wasting everyone's time). Well, very nearly the sub-Arthur had always wanted, and in a few years, with some love and heartbreak under his belt, he really would be what Arthur had always been sort of quietly looking for.

Someone who needed orders, not because they couldn't think of what to do, but because they were going in too many different directions at once, and thus needed a taste of Arthur's focus. He wanted someone who could think broad, who could examine possibilities he hadn't, who would punch some windows into his worldview, but would still, singularly, need his ability to par everything down.

He wanted someone who thought in the physical, who could move with him, who would sometimes fight against him just so Arthur could prove that they wouldn't win. He liked the struggle, and while he still enjoyed mentally keeping people where he wanted them, he wasn't wholly pleased until he's enacted a very literal and comprehensive translation of domination. And Eames looked like...like Arthur was the only thing holding him together, that hand on his wrist.

But that's the problem. Arthur doesn't want to be the only thing holding Eames together . Sure, in a scene, maybe, but that's playing. That's planned, that isn't true or real. Not really. He's played with adults, who have looked at him like he's the only thing in the world that matters, but in truth, they'd had careers and friends and hobbies and lives.

Eames is so very near what Arthur has always wanted, but he can't do that to him. Outside of legality, he can't be the only good thing in Eames' life, the thing he turns to because everything else is terrible. Then he's no better than any other joy-seeking behavior Eames has given into, no better and no more healthy than drinking, and the fact that he just wants what's best doesn't mean anything .

He doesn't expect Eames home life to turn up sunshine and puppies any time soon-if ever at all. But he'd needed to know. He needs to know if they'll try if they're made to. Clearly not talking about it hadn't been useful.

But Eames needs more than two safe spaces. There's still school. Eames needs friends, and right now he's not making any because he's too busy being with Arthur all the time. He needs friends, at least one, who is his own age, and he's not going to let up until Eames has one. A real one. Someone supportive, not just convenient. Not necessarily at school, but just someone who is not Arthur.

He hears Eames get into the shower, then goes back to cleaning up. He can't force Eames to make friends, but he can do his best to get Eames into a receptive state of mind and into situations where he's likely to make some. Despite what he says he is a likable person. He just needs to stop thinking everyone is going to hate him right off the bat and thus punish them for it.

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

### Jan. 16th, 2011 11:16 am (local)

Re: Minecraft Now Has Birch Trees! This Is Exciting For Me.

Eames adamantly refused to talk about the camping trip when he got back, instead he curled up on the couch and played on the GameCube like he was angry at everything and needed a virtual avatar to hurt things for him. Arthur's business luncheon with Eames' mom hadn't gone much better, as she still seemed sort of adamantly confused on what Arthur expected of her if it wasn't to get Eames to stop coming over to his house, like it simply _could not occur_ to her that Arthur just wanted her and Eames to get along better, or, in fact, that they needed to.  
  
Eames also came back with a hard, determined look in his eye, like he was resolved to something and by God, it was going to get done which made Arthur just slightly wary, not knowing what Eames had resolved, but that he likely wouldn't like it.  
  
He'd seen some co-workers for drinks over the weekend, got some work done, and mowed the lawn, but it had been too quiet in the house, too much space and too little distraction, which wasn't helped at all by the idea that Eames was no off doing something he wanted to be doing, but at least he knew Eames was (likely) safe enough.  
  
He didn't have to wait all that long to find out what it was that Eames had resolved himself to. Just as long as it took him to bring up that Eames should take up a hobby, or a sport or some sort of team (as joining something was the only way Arthur really knew how to meet people) and for Eames to stare at him a moment before slouching into the couch in a lazy sort of sprawl that only teenagers _really_ knew, and rolled him head into the couch.  
  
"I know what you're up to. You think just because you're the only person I hang out with, I must be hurting for company."  
  
"Eames, I'm not trying to get rid of you, but you're sixteen. You need friends that are your age. Or closer to it, in any case."  
  
"Yeah, I don't see you rushing out the door at all hours." Eames gets up on his knees, trying to get leverage by height alone and Arthur just stares up at him, intimidated. "When I call, you're always here. When I knock, you're always at home. And you aren't waiting here for _me_ , which means you just are here."  
  
"Eames, this isn't about me."  
  
"Bullshite it's not about you. You hung out with me because you thought I needed a friend, and now I have one-you-you start thinking I need a different one. Why?"  
  
"Eames, this isn't healthy for you. I don't think you'll grow up and regret this one day, I'm not going to patronize you like that, but I want you to have some more social expirence. What if something happened to me?" Arthur asked.  
  
Eames stops sort, looking unsure a moment. "You...you aren't leaving, are you? Is this your way of telling me your moving?"  
  
"No, no. I'm not moving. Not that I know of right now, in any case." Arthur rests his head back. "Eames, you're a smart young man, and I know you can make your own choices, at least partly, but you need more than one kind of influence."  
  
Eames watches him a moment before sinking down onto the cushions. "Don't think I don't know what this is about." Eames repeats, determined.  
  
"What is this about Eames?" Arthur steeples his fingers under his chin and Eames looks away and starts picking at his nail, sort of absently, like he lost his nerve, but Arthur doubts it. Eames take a sharp breath and then lifts his chin.  
  
"If I don't, you gonna kick me out?"  
  
"No. But I won't drop it either." Arthur warns.  
  
Eames considers this, staring down at the denim of his knees as he thinks. "I'll join something, I'll clear _which one_ with you and supply proof of your choosing, hell, I'll even try and make age-appropriate _friends_ for you."  
  
"This isn't for me, Eames." Arthur sighs.  
  
"Like fuck it isn't." Eames eyes have the hard glint at the fore now and Arthur braces himself for whatever it is. "I'm not doing that for my health, am I? You want this, so I'll do it for you, not for myself. That's what you were going to try in a bit, right? Do it for _me_ , Eames, and I was supposed to just give in, right?"  
  
Sort of.

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

### Jan. 16th, 2011 11:17 am (local)

Re: I Am So Proud Of BB!Eames Right Now.

"This _is_ for you," Eames continues. "I would be doing this because you asked, not because I felt like it. Alright. Fine, you want this? I want something in return."  
  
"What would make this easier on you?"  
  
Eames holds up two fingers, one on each hand. "For each meeting or session or whatever that I go to, without having to be dragged, or forced or ordered to," He shakes one finger, then holds forth the other, "I get a kiss. A real one, a _proper_ one. Doesn't have to be long, but I get one, and I choose when I collect."  
  
  
Arthur's stomach drops and he has to close his eyes a moment to collect him. When he looks Eames is still staring at him, fingers raised.  
  
"That isn't appropriate, Eames." Arthur says and Eames fists curl.  
  
  
"You're the one who made this about what's _best_ for me, Arthur. Well, you want to talk to my family? You want to make me more _social_ ? Then I want something in return. I don't care about how this will help me in the future, I have to live it now, so I want something that makes it worthwhile."  
  
"Eames, you're _sixteen_ ." Arthur reminds, trying to remain neutral. "I'm twenty five. I'm happy to be your friend, but we can't...we can't be more than that."  
  
"I wouldn't tell anyone." Eames' jaw works. "I don't know why you don't trust me, but I wouldn't."  
  
And of course he wouldn't. If for no other reason than Eames had no one else to tell, unless he wanted to report it to the police. Which was part of the problem, really.  
  
"I trust you. Not about everything, no, just like you don't entirely trust me about everything. But I can't do that Eames. It's not about if someone finds out, you need normal relationships."  
  
"So you going to kick me out now?" Eames asks, curling up on the couch and fuck this hurts, this _hurts_ , because Arthur wants to kiss him, wants to hold him down and never let Eames doubt for a second that he's wanted, but that's _wrong_ .  
  
"No." Arthur says.  
  
"I'm not asking for more. I won't." Eames says. "I won't ask for more for this, I'll keep going, and if this meeting or hobby, or whatever doesn't work out, I'll find a new one. It doesn't need to me a long kiss, just..." He hands open and curl again, impotently and Arthur has to look away. "That's all I'll ask for. It doesn't have to mean anything. And I know you're think this is just some dumb crush, and yeah, okay, so what if it is?" Eames straightens up, "If it's just some dumb crush, then I'll get over it faster this way. I'll meet new people, and not hold you up on a pedestal or whatever."  
  
"Eames." Arthur sighs. "Those are just justifications and you know it. You're just asking for something you know I can't give you so you don't have to do something you're afraid of."  
  
"I'm not _afraid_ ," Eames scoffs. "I just don't see the _point_ but you want it, even though you know I don't want to. So I'm asking for something I want back. It wouldn't mean anything if I asked for something easy, because _you_ aren't." Eames gets up and goes off to his...Arthur's guest room, which _is_ his room, because Arthur never has any guests that would need to sleep in a different bed than Arthur.  
  
Arthur is going to give in to this. He knows he is, because at the end of the day, it is the best way to get Eames a support system. And Eames will just stand just as firm for any other attempt. But maybe if Eames sleeps on it he'll relent a little. It's a fool's hope, but, well, aptly named. He should have guessed it would come to this, but he'd been sort of hanging on the hope Eames would be too embarrassed to ever bring it up.  
  
Apparently his camping trip with his stepfather had gotten him angry enough to work past that.  
  
Arthur needs to play with someone sometime soon or he's going to make even worse choices than he has thus far. He'll go soon. Out to one of his favorite clubs, where he knows people, and knows their standards. Doesn't need to get off, that's not the problem here, he needs to step into a situation that is discussed, consensual and with an adult. He's been neglecting himself, which isn't going to help anyone. He needs to be in his right mind when walking a territory this treacherous.

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

### Jan. 16th, 2011 12:47 pm (local)

Re: LAST CALL. NO MORE TONIGHT. GO WASH THE DISHES OR SOMETHING.

If this fic gets to a certain length, I'm going to compile it and update it on my journal, because I have a feeling about this fic. I have a _feeling_ .  
  
The bargain eventually works out to this: Eames joins a community art class, because Arthur points out he spends most of his day doodling anyways, so it's not like the activity he'd be doing would be, in itself, distasteful. It's on Thursday and Tuesday afternoons.  
  
In exchange, Eames gets one kiss for each class. Eames decides when, but Arthur decides where.  
  
"We keep it in here." Arthur says, hand on the frame of his bedroom door.  
  
Eames is watching him, and he's not smug. Arthur wouldn't react well if Eames were smug at the moment.  
  
"If you complain, or groan, or gripe at all then you don't get anything. If you don't do your homework for the class, or the in-class work, then it's also forfeit."  
  
Eames just keeps watching and Arthur grips the doorframe. They'd gone to the first class today, and Eames had seemed almost _excited_ about the prospect, and Arthur knew _why_ but he hoped...if this didn't work, they'd try something new. It was just a kiss. If there was such a thing.  
  
"Okay." Eames agrees, quiet, so fucking eager and Arthur is doing this because it's for the best. Eames needs a support system, he does, he needs to be interested in doing something besides hiding in Arthur's house. Eames needs other places to go. High School will, eventually, end.  
  
He ignores the part of himself that says that Eames could, then, be his _actual_ kept boy, he'd be legal, and Arthur could just _keep_ him. Could have him all to himself, and not let anything in the world hurt him.  
  
Eames walks into the room and takes in the desk by the window, the Queen sized bed against the other wall, the books on the bedside table, and bookshelf nestled next to the desk and the wardrobe along the other wall. Arthur closes the door behind them, a strange bid of...not privacy. Separation. Distinction.  
  
Eames stands, then turns to look at Arthur expectantly. And Arthur knows he's waiting to be kissed. He's not going to do it, because this is Arthur's side of the deal. Normally he doesn't kiss until he's subdued his partner, just one of those things, but it feels...strange, now, with no prelude and how he's the one trapped, now. He could say no, of course, and then Eames would just not go to his class and everything would settle as it had been.  
  
He moves with purpose and grabs Eames' face with his hand, nearly upset, no-no he's upset. He hates this, and he wants this, and he hates that he's been maneuvered to this situation, where giving up and giving in both damn him in some fashion. Eames eyes go wide and his cocky expectation just fades away, drops and Arthur keeps his grip on Eames jaw and kisses him, brief and harsh and with nothing sweet or open or pleased. He'll give Eames what he asked for, but there's no promise that it's what he wants.  
  
But Eames doesn't flinch, just stands and accepts and Arthur pulls back just as sudden and Eames swallows and something in Arthur's gut jolts and he could _eat_ Eames, the way he's looking right now, lips flushes and eyes bright and he hasn't made a noise, but it's clear he wants more. More of that. Eames swallows and nods to himself.  
  
Arthur turns, "You may go."  
  
Eames pauses before slowly leaving without a word, shutting the door behind him, and Arthur just sits there, on the floor, arms over his head and ignores his dick, just lets it hurt and beg and plead and he wants, fuck, he _wants_ , he wants Eames under him and hurting and begging and apologizing for being an irresistible little manipulative shit, and he wants to apologize to Eames, and he wants to drag Eames down into his bed and showing him what a kiss actually is, kiss him better than anyone he ever meet ever will, to be the kiss he's never going to forget until the day he dies, no matter what happens, Arthur would be the person he holds every single future relationship against and they would all fall short.  
  
Instead he just sits on his floor and quietly sorts through all his impulses until he finds the calm, cool center of the storm, gets up, and goes to make dinner.

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

### Jan. 17th, 2011 04:55 am (local)

Re: So I Heard Maybe You Guys Might Want Some More Of This.

Eames can’t get to sleep. At best he, falls into a sort of doze before startling himself awake again. He’s not in his room, had to go back to his mum’s house, go back to his tiny room that smells like stale sweat and week-old musk.  
  
He got Arthur to kiss him. Arthur had been mad, Arthur had looked at him like he’d rather punch him in the jaw, right then, and then kiss him, but he’d done it. And he would keep doing it, one for every Tuesday and Thursday that Eames went to his class without complaint and had done his homework. And Eames didn’t know if every one of them would be like that, vicious and angry and harsh. He didn’t think so, he hopes Arthur doesn’t stay mad at him that long.  
  
It’s stupid, though, how Arthur can act like Eames can make choices that will influence the rest of his life, but he's too much of a dumb, stupid kid to decide who he wants to be in a relationship with. And it’s not like Arthur just doesn’t like him, because he _does_ , Arthur looks and sometimes his hands twitch, and when he’d been holding Eames wrists down against his thigh he hadn’t wanted to let go. Eames isn’t stupid. Arthur wants him, he just doesn’t think Eames is smart enough to decide what he wants for himself. Or he doesn’t trust Eames not to tell anyone, which is bullshit, because Eames can keep all kinds of secrets.  
  
And sure, fine, he’ll go through the motions to make Arthur more comfortable. He try and make friends, and play nice with the family, fine, he can do that. Just as long as he gets what he wants, what he _really_ wants, in return, because in three…no, four months Arthur has done more for him then anyone else for the whole of Eames’ life. Arthur been good for him, and he doesn’t—he honestly, really doesn’t—see how adding sex to that could make it worse. Arthur would be better for him then the people he has been with, and all of them he just had to practice for Arthur, so if he had the real thing, then he wouldn’t need to go out, get high and blow some guy while they were both too out of it to think straight. Really, what would getting with someone his own age help him with?  
  
And none of them would have Arthur’s presence, or his focus, or be able to do half the things Arthur could do with just a few soft, intense words.  
  
He rolls over again, hunch him legs under himself and pressing his face harder into the pillow. Arthur just needed to get over himself and the more he pushes Eames out into the world, the harder Eames is going to hold onto Arthur. Just because his drawing class isn’t completely miserable doesn’t mean he wants to be mates with anyone there, the couples who are doing it together, the home-schooled kids and the college students, and the middle-aged housewives and the middle-age-crisis men all who think they’ve got something magical or some shit inside them and just need a bi-weekly class to bring it out, or whatever. He doesn’t glare at anyone, or anything, and he does like the feeling of charcoal. It’s a scratchy, gruff, messy sort of material, it smears and it blots, unlike pencils, which are all hard outlines, and broken tips and scritch-scratch. The first day was “experiencing the medium”, playing around with different lines and textures, heavy thick black swatches, and tiny little rivulets, smears and creases and ghostly remainders. He likes how, with charcoal, you could really erase anything. It was still there afterwards, and it felt like a drawing had some history, so depth to it, even if it was a weird still-life set up with some lamps and a lot of blankets.  
  
Eames rolled over on his side again with the creak of mattress springs. His bed never creaked, it was a comfortable, thick mattress, something that he could stretch out on and that supported his back and didn’t decided to give up under him like a panty-arsed twat.  
  
He just had to get through school tomorrow and then he could go back to Arthur’s house. He could go back and they could hang out, watch a movie, and Eames could make Arthur laugh and forget he was mad, just for a little bit. And he could do his homework on a drop cloth on the closet door of his bedroom, shirtless so the charcoal wouldn’t get on everything, and Arthur would forgive him, just a bit, and everything would be fine.

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

### Jan. 17th, 2011 06:28 am (local)

Re: Angst Train, All Aboard.

Arthur let Eames in and Eames stood there long enough to absorb the fact that Arthur was dressed to go out. Eames blinked at him a moment and Arthur gave him the spare key he’d had made. Eames looks down at his hand, then back at Arthur.  
  
“So, you’re off, then?” He eventually managed.  
  
“I have some business to take care of. You can stay here, rules still apply of course, I won’t be able to check over your homework, but you should have internalized at least some of my complaints. How was your day?” Arthur gives a brief smile and Eames steps inside as Arthur check his pocket for his keys.  
  
“Fine.” Eames says, and then Arthur is gone, closing the door behind him and then getting into his car. Eames is still standing there like a twat, with his hand open and the key burning into his hand, bookbag hanging off his left shoulder like it wants to drag him into the underworld and keep him there. Arthur’s never left before. Arthur doesn’t go anywhere or do anything, he never has, unless…  
  
Either he hasn’t been going out and doing things because he thought Eames needed him, and now he’s returning back to it, or he’s just started doing it to…to push Eames? Punish him? Punish him for that kiss. Is he just never going be around, giving Eames a new and different empty house to come to at the end of the day, until Eames takes the hint and just…fucks off. No, maybe he actually has business, maybe something came up.  
  
But wouldn’t he have actually given Eames an idea of what that _was_ without moving out the door so quickly that there might as well have been a gas leak.  
  
But on the other hand, now he has a key. Maybe it’s a consolation prize, and maybe it’s just because Arthur wants Eames to lock up after himself, but now he had a key to Arthur’s house.  
  
He reaches down and grabs his keychain, hooks Arthur’s key on next to the one for his mum’s house and looks at the two keys there, glinting in the light of the entryway light. He could leave. He wants to leave, a bit, go out and get drunk, go out and get into a fight, steal a car, or…or find some guy who could even pretend to hold him down and fuck him and he could… he could pretend that was—  
  
Arthur’s planner. He could check Arthur’s planner. He wrote everything in there. Maybe he’s just been running late to something important/ Eames couldn’t get bent out of shape over nothing, then Arthur really would think he was just some dumb kid. No, he was going to be reasonable about this. Level-headed, he was going to just peek in at Arthur’s planner and then calm the fuck down. Take a shower. It could be a nice night in, really, if he wanted it to be. Arthur’s house was nice, and he could play Age of Empires II until his ears bled, or he conquered that final bit in the fucking Attila The Hun campaign, which ever came first.  
  
Arthur’s planner was on his desk, the moleskin familiar and comforting. He could flip through the pages and see what Arthur had done at any given time on any given day, April 3rd 2009, _Discuss baby shower with Gracie_ , October 12th 2010, 3:30 pm _Meeting with Thompson_ , January 7th 2011, 1:15pm _Lunch at The Golden Quince_ , a constant litany of Arthur’s existence in a tight, legible shorthand which Eames could decode after having to read Arthur’s next day plans outloud to him while Arthur made dinner.  
  
Most evenings Eames was scheduled, written there in pen, and either the time he was to go home, or the time he was to go to bed written underneath it, there for him to look at and examine. But tonight there was just a time (the time Arthur had left, five minutes ago) which said _Eames→key. Evening at the B_.

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

### Jan. 17th, 2011 06:44 am (local)

Re: Chugga Chugga, Chugga Chugga, Chugga Chugga TWEEET TWEEET

 _Also, as, uh, a warning? This fic does deal with BDSM themes. And "deals with" I mean, "has a BDSM theme party and wants to spank all the ponies." So. Uh._  
  
Eames frowned and sat in the desk chair. He knew most of Arthur’s abbreviations; most of the locations Arthur went to with any regularity (the office, an assortment of restaurants, the library, the market, back here) but B he didn’t recognize.  
  
He flipped back through Arthur’s planner, and Arthur had, indeed gone to _B_ before, before Eames had arrived he’d gone there at least once a week, usually on a Friday.  
  
Eames paused and then went to a specific date, the day they’d adopted Rule Eight, and there. Right there. He’d gone to B that night too, nearly two hours before Eames had come over.  
  
A bar. It had to be, he was picking up people at a bar, and that’s why…He was going to a bar and he was going to find some big strong guy and get that look in his eyes, that look that said that it didn't matter how big you were, how strong, or how buff, he could take you down and keep you there. The look that made Eames work harder because he wanted Arthur's reflex to be to give him that look, to see the sweel of Eames biceps, triceps, the breadth of his shoulders  
  
Eames had tried being good, he’d _been_ being good, and, fuck. He’d been being good, and now he had two empty houses to choose from and fuck that, fuck that entirely. Arthur wanted to go make friends, well, fine. He wasn’t a complete social pariah, he could _make_ friends, he made all _sorts_ of friends when he put his mind to it, and he could have a night out on the town too, if he wanted. Didn’t need to sit around here, pining or whatever like some…some thing that he didn’t want to be. Fuck that. Fuck all of this.  
  
  
His head was buzzing and his throat was tight and his eyes hurt, and it was just so fucking _frustrating_ . He just...he wasn't asking for much. Arthur didn't need to do this to him, and he was doing this _to_ Eames, rubbing it in Eames face what he could have. Just look at the timing. Arthur could have texted him and said he'd be busy tonight and not let Eames come here just to watch him go. He was doing this _to_ Eames, and he didn't need to.  
  
Eames looked down at the key.  
  
Fine. Fuck it. Whatever. It was fine. Arthur wanted to get his end off, it happened. It didn't mean anything. No one he was going to fuck tonight got Arthur's key. They weren't in Arthur's planner. They were just being used to make a point, and Eames would still be here. No matter how many fucking times Arthur tried this, Eames wasn't going away.  
  
So, okay, fine, whatever. Okay, he was going to go out and have fun. That was what tonight was going to be, a nice vacation from life for a few hours. He had wanted to spend it here, but he was a flexible kind of guy. He wasn't going to make a big deal, just going to have a good time and none of this responsibility shit. That's what he needed, a night just to cut loose, live a little. Just for a night, anyways, Arthur wanted a break, fine. Eames was just going to take one too, then tomorrow he'd go to his class, and then he'd get a kiss from Arthur and it would be worth it. This would all be worth it.  
  
He closed the planner, shut off the lights, grabbed his jacket and locked up behind him. Arthur wasn't the only person who could get into a fucking bar.

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

### Jan. 17th, 2011 09:25 am (local)

Re: This Is When The Upsetting Bits Begin.

I RESPOND TO COMMENT PARTS AT RANDOM.  
  
\---

  
  
There are no good clubs near where Arthur lives, not nearby, anyways. The nearest one is all heavy bass lines, and poor door-security and everything smells like heavy industrial cleaner and fucking. That isn't, and never would be, how Arthur gets into his headspace, and going there had put Arthur more on edge then he had been when he'd shown up-and seeing as he'd had a meeting with the Great Saito _himself_ that week, he really could afford that sort of mis-step.  
  
  
However, after diligent searching--and Arthur is nothing if not good at diligent searching--and fieldwork, he's found a place that is, while a commute, more suitable for his particular tastes. Instead of sync music and filthy dubstep, it has a live jazz band. Instead of the darkened corners and vinyl booths there are rich, tasteful furnishing, good (but not oppressive) lighting, and an aftercare room that is actually relaxing, but not out-of-place.  
  
It hardly perfect-the venue is small, some days Arthur comes in and the other people there are the staff and a few regulars, but he's won a reputation as a responsible dom, one whose interest is-primarily-in men, and physical restraint and struggle, and less in the technicality of toys or roleplay or games. He plays, of course, it is _playing_ , and he has fun, or something _like_ fun, but he is bad at roleplaying, and if he has too many toys he feels overburdened by the show. He likes things to be simple, elegant and efficient.  
  
He doesn't think any clientele will be around to play, but the staff has professional submissives as well as professional dominants who follow the same sort of rules: no sex, no fluids exchanged, only scene in-house, all scenes will be monitored for quality assurance, tips are accepted and appreciated, and all health forms and waivers must be signed and dated and _actually read_ (and Arthur had, he also read all Terms of Service which is how he knew it was against policy to use iTunes software for a nuclear attack) and he'll take that, Hell, maybe that'd be better. He needs something that isn't complicated, because all Eames _is_ is complicated and that's what Arthur is...well, to be honest, running away from. Just briefly. Just for a moment. He'll go back tomorrow and he'll be stronger for it. It's either this or he's not going to have the patience he needs to help Eames.  
  
He would have waited until Eames went to bed, but with the commute time and the fact that he needs an in-house scene it just wasn't possible. Eames will be fine by himself for one night. God, he should have at least let him settle in, but he can't...he had to...he's still _angry_ is the problem, underneath it all, he angry at Eames for forcing Arthur to do something he wants to do, but has been justifiably denying himself. If kissing Eames, kissing him at all, kissing him good morning when he pads downstairs for breakfast, or kissing him goodnight when they've finished reading, or watching television, or a slow easy kiss when Eames has done something particularly well, or a quick peck of acknowledgment when either of them are busy. He would love to kiss Eames, he would love to drag him down and kiss him until he relaxed into the couch, whimpering and needing, forgetting about teachers and classmates and everything else terrible, and could just _be_ for a moment.  
  
Obviously he wanted that, obviously he wanted that so badly it _hurt_ to have to deny himself it, to deny Eames who so clearly just wanted some affection and approval, but Eames _is_ so desperate for affection, any kind of affection, that Arthur doesn't know if Eames wants Arthur, or just wants someone to want him, and Arthur can't _do this_.

 

##  [persephone_il](http://persephone-il.livejournal.com/) wrote:

### Jan. 17th, 2011 06:36 am (local)

will read in a minute. for now, you're getting comment porn. (1/2)

This is me giving bb!Eames a foot fetish. If it helps, I'm really sorry. Takes place some time before Arthur's first talk to Eames' mum.  
  
Eames runs his finger over the books in Arthur's library and wonders.  
  
He wants to make a good impression. He knows that. What Eames chooses will matter, which is a bugger because Eames doesn't want to read _any_ of these things.  
  
It's one of the glossy picture books that he ends up choosing. Well, he started with something cloth-bound and old, which looked literary and fine. Except Eames opened it, and the first page was something long about elephants, and the next thing he flipped to said _I will sit on the floor and look at you. In your peaceful room, I'll wait for you like your patient shoes,_ and that was just creepy.  
  
So the book. With pictures in it. Whatever, it's in Arthur's library and it doesn't remind Eames of nightmares he had in elementary school. (The shoes had teeth. Don't ask.)  
  
It's old. Or rather, the pictures are. The book itself is new, the spine creaking suspiciously when Eames opens it – has Arthur even _read_ this? – but the pictures are either black and white or oddly colored, sort of blurry in a way that indicates _artistic_ rather than _cameraman with shaky hands_ .  
  
These aren't photos, anyway. It's Art or something. There's mythological beasts and things, and people with feathers, and Eames kind of contemplates just putting it back where he found it but he has to read _something_ . What the hell.  
  
Eames goes to sit in the living room, because if he's going to read grown-up, boring, artistic stuff then he should at least do it where Arthur can appreciate his efforts. Not that Arthur does. Arthur is looking at his work and not at Eames, even though Eames is trying to better himself for Arthur, and does Arthur's work do that? No, it stays numberish and boring.  
  
He could sigh a little, see if that gets Arthur's attention, but he reminds himself he's trying to be good so he sits down, quiet-like, and reads.  
  
It's sad to say that he finds the book kind of incomprehensible. It's a _picture book_ , it's not meant to be difficult. It's just that the women have _fins_ and the men are all googly-eyed and also made of snow. At this point, text would actually be welcome, because it might explain _what the hell is going on._  
  
Then Eames turns a page, and the page stays turned. It stays because Eames is holding it, because he needs to be looking at this. No, wait, he needs to _stop_ looking at this, preferably right now, because any minute Arthur will turn to look at Eames and Eames is rapidly turning colors that don't really become him.  
  
He swallows. It's just a picture, right? He can close the book shut now and go get something else, anything else, even the creepy poetry thing. It's not even a dirty picture, not something Eames would hesitate to hide under his bed in case anyone decided to pry into his business.  
  
It would be better if it were filthy, if there were naked people in there. There aren't and it's not. It's just weird. There's a woman, and she's wearing a hat that's frankly bigger than her torso, and another woman who's not wearing much of _anything_ but she's the slender type and _Eames_ has more to put in a cleavage than that.  
  
And that woman is kneeling, and she's holding the first woman's foot in her hand, and pressing her lips to the arch of it like some strange perversion of a continental kiss to the hand. The woman with the hat is wearing one boot, with the other next to her, like the kneeling woman just took that off for her.  
  
Eames blinks and remembers, a month ago – it was raining, it rained bad and Arthur went out to the corner store to get milk (was it milk? Eames seems to remember that. Something along those lines) and came back dripping wet. He'd taken his shoes off, then (well, not just then, he'd put the milk or whatever-it-was in the fridge first because this is Arthur and he is thorough) and gotten into a dry pair of socks and that was that.

 

[ **persephone_il** ](http://persephone-il.livejournal.com/) wrote:

### Jan. 17th, 2011 06:39 am (local)

COMMENT PORN (2/2)

But Eames is thinking, now, that maybe that shouldn't have happened like that. Maybe Arthur should have sat down and let Eames take his shoes off for him. Then Eames wouldn't kneel just for no reason, but because it was convenient to do that so he could take Arthur's shoes off.  
  
It wouldn't be a problem, anyway. Arthur has a thick comfortable carpet in his living room. Eames' knees wouldn't hurt at all.  
  
And then he could have gotten Arthur's feet nice and warm. They were probably icy, coming in from the rain like that, but Eames' hands are always a bit too warm around Arthur. He could put that to good use, that would be nice.  
  
If Eames bent down then, just pressed a kiss at the top of Arthur's instep, well, why not? Since this is all happening in a world where Arthur lets Eames take his shoes off without saying things like _what are you doing?_ or _Eames, you're getting water on the carpet._  
  
No reason to think Arthur _wouldn't_ let Eames do that, is all. And maybe he could lift Arthur's foot, drag his tongue down Arthur's sole, careful not to tickle. He's got nice feet, does Arthur, all those delicate bones fitted together, soft pale skin.  
  
Eames closes the book very slowly. Arthur still hasn't looked at him, not once since he came into the living room. If Eames called him, Arthur would raise his head and say _what?_ , not angry or impatient, just wanting to know. But as long as Eames is quiet, Arthur leaves him alone, just to do whatever.  
  
So Eames _doesn't_ call Arthur's name, doesn't call any attention to himself at all, just slots the book back into Arthur's shelves and go to his room – the guest room – no, _his_ room, for today, for a minute, for now. Just for now.  
  
He lies on the bed and closes his eyes and lets himself see it, Arthur padding around the house, Arthur putting his feet up on the coffee table, and Eames is never allowed to touch Arthur at all but it's only feet, isn't it? Nothing adult or dangerous about them. Feet. They're what you walk with.  
  
Maybe he'd put them in Eames' lap, so Eames can rub them until Arthur's relaxed and smiling at him. Or, no, go back to before, to Arthur in the chair and his poor legs needing to be warmed up. Because maybe Eames could take Arthur's trousers off too, while he's at it, drape himself over Arthur's lap and warm him up all over.  
  
Then, if he's bad – if he said something he shouldn't, out of turn, something – maybe Arthur would take a hand to him; but if he's good, maybe Arthur would take a _hand_ to him, maybe, and Eames would slide right down and let Arthur touch him, smacks or petting, Eames doesn't even care.  
  
And then he could just press his lips to the top of Arthur's foot, kiss the hinge of it, near the ankle. If he's very, very good, maybe Arthur's other foot will slide up Eames' thigh, reach him, press down where he's pressing the heel of his hand right now and, _oh_ .  
  
He opens his eyes, panting in the half-darkness of his – the guest room in late afternoon. Goes to wash himself, and if Arthur wonders what drives Eames to take a shower all of a sudden he doesn't ask.  
  
Eames sort of wishes he did, but that's just the way things are now.

 

##  [skellerbvvt](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

### Jan. 17th, 2011 10:04 am (local)

Re: Warning, There's Going To Be Both Eames&Arthur With People Who Aren't Each Other For A Stretch

He parks in a parking garage a three blocks from his destination, needing the walk as much as the parking space. It would be easier if he could just pin Eames to the wall and take his frustration out of that fucking mouth of his, it was be wonderful to tilt Eames head up when he's frowning over his homework and kiss him until he relaxes a bit, it would be amazing to offer a tangible sort of comfort, a viable manner of reward, or congratulations, or feelings, because Arthur's words aren't good enough and he just wants to sink his fingers in and _show_ .  
  
Maybe sceneing tonight would be a bad idea. He's no where near something level-headed, and it has been so long...but he needed it, and there was a safety net. It was in-house, and he could ask for someone to sit in with them, if that made him more comfortable. He'd keep it simple, tap out if he needed to.  
  
But he needs to focus on someone whose not Eames and this is the only way he knows how to stop thinking about something, to force his focus on something new and giving him a sort of reset button. He needs perspective.  
  
"Where have you been?"  
  
He jerks his head up and turns so Maxwell can take his coat. He's who Arthur came here to see.  
  
"I've been worried about you, I made you promise, did I? That you'd come in at least once a week if things got bad. And look at you, your wound up like you about to start blaring out on the hour. Cookoo-cookoo. That's what you are. Jesus fuck."  
  
"Were you expecting me?" Arthur asks as Maxwell steps back and tucks his hands into his jeans sheepishly. He's a fusser. Arthur's met his girlfriend, briefly, but the short interaction was enough so that he's not entirely blind to where the inclination comes from.  
  
"You were standing there lost in your own head long enough for me to notice from all the way over there." Maxwell points across the room. "If you _also_ want any answer to how I knew you were shaken up like a two liter of Coke two nine years old with a lot of time a rumor about exploding soda bottles, there it is."  
  
"Lydia come up with that?"  
  
Maxwell smiles, pleased as an entire prom full of punch, "Woke up in the middle of the night and wrote it on me before falling right back to sleep. And let me tell you, I wasn't going to say anything, took me you don't want to even know to get her asleep in the first place, Jesus fuck, I tell you."  
  
Arthur just nods and he goes to have a seat at one of the tables, Maxwell heads off to the bar while Arthur sits and he returns with a white Belgian ale, thick with foam and smelling faintly of citrus. Maxwell plops in across from him, and he isn't the sub Arthur has always sort of wanted, for one he doesn't need Arthur at all. They have fun, they've had rewarding scenes, and Arthur has never regretted the time or money, but Maxwell was, physically, what Arthur wanted, and he could, for an hour or two, be very near like something Arthur wanted, and could, for an hour or two, be very much what Arthur needed.  
  
"I don't want to talk." Arthur says, looking up from his glass. "I can't..." Arthur looks across the table and Maxwell sinks into the chair, all consideration, lithe bulk, and shoulders, suddenly going from worried friend, to something wicked, something flame bright and just this side of tameable.  
  
"Well then, what do you want to do?" He tilts his head up, sullen and he's good at his job He's good with people, because he can see the way Arthur his holding himself and staring and how much he wants to just _let go_ with someone who deserves it, and he's offering that up, giving himself over to what Arthur needs as easily as Arthur slides into his suit every morning. Something like practice and something like preference, and something like being made to do what one does.  
  
"What rooms are taken?" Arthur asks, pushing the brew aside without drinking any.  
  
"None." Maxwell says, cocking his head, and the man is pushing 30, but Arthur can let the years slide and just read the posture and the stubbornly effective glint in his eyes and see something like 16.  
  
"Go to Sienna, I'll meet you there, _don't_ undress, just stand in the middle of the room and wait for me."  
  
Maxwell gets up and walks off. Arthur goes to make the proper arrangements.

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

### Jan. 17th, 2011 11:06 am (local)

Re: MOAR TOMORROW

For the record, if this were a film, Arthur and Eames would both be fucking the same person, as that would entertain me.  
  
Eames has a fake ID, and a good one at that, none of this nonsense with a picture of an 80-year-old gran and some made up nonsense name. No sir. Eames has a proper fake ID, it couldn't get him through an airport, but he looks near enough something like 21 and his ID is good enough, that most bars and the like will go along with it.  
  
It's not a gay bar proper, but more like something where older men take a gander if a younger man happens to be sitting by himself, and choose for themselves whether they might like to buy said younger man and drink and then fuck his face out in the ally, or to take back home for a longer engagement, if they have a home they can afford to take a young man back to, no wife or family or nothing. Thus far Eames has stuck to the former, because he doesn't mind sucking dick to try and get a feel for it, but any more and he...that's different.  
  
Or was. Anyways. But if Arthur is going to go off and do...whoever, then clearly he wants someone with expirence. Someone who isn't going to lie there and not know what the hell he was even supposed to do with his hands or feet or anything. A guy could only get off on so many orders, right? And that way, if Arthur asked if it was his first time-and no, no, he wouldn't ask that and hope it was. No that was dumb. He would ask that and if it was he'd pull away, getting guilty and distant all over again, and give Eames some line about expanding his horizons, and experimenting with people his own, fucking age.  
  
Fuck that. He knows what he wants, and he wants Arthur, and he'll suck however much cock he needs to to prove that he deserves what he wants, he doesn't care. So now if Arthur asks he'll be able to tell him he's not, Arthur's not his first anything, so he can shove all the sanctimonious bullshit and just... Eames presses the heel of his hand agaisnt his forehead. They were just dumb daydreams, anyways, thinking Arthur would want to be the first. Who cared about virginity these days, anyways? It was dumb. Arthur wouldn't look at Eames like he was...he was good for having. Waited, or whatever. He wouldn't crowd over him and say how happy he was that Eames was all his. Stupid shit, all of it.  
  
His chest hurt, and he doubted he'd ever been less ready for a shag than he was now, but Arthur wasn't ever going to do any of the stuff in his head. Not unless Eames pushed him to, drove him wild, and kept doing it. He could convince Arthur, he knew he could, eventually but he needed to learn a thing or two first.  
  
He meets a man's eyes, he's not Arthur, doesn't look a thing like him, but there's a moment, maybe, where Eames thinks he can almost glimpse something _like_ Arthur around the edges.  
  
The man talks to the bartender, then comes over with a glass of lager and sets it in front of him. He doesn't have a line for him, no "you come here often" or "you at the college?"  
  
They drink in silence until they're done and the man stands and Eames follows him, doesn't lead him to the back like he tends to, just follows the man out the door and into his car, gets in when the guys opens the door for him.  
  
"Limits?" The guy asks as he drives.  
  
"Wrap it up, no coming on me or tying me down or anything. Just looking for a fuck." Eames shrugs and looks out the window. "Not on the floor though, eh? And don't...talk." He adds. "During. None of that dirty boy, shit, alright?"  
  
"Works." The man says, easily enough and he parks in a driveway. Eames get up and shuffles around while the man opens the door

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

### Jan. 17th, 2011 08:45 pm (local)

Re: SURPRISE! GOT UP EARLY AGAIN. FOR YOOOOOU.

I'm starting to think I should start a new thread for this bitch.  
  
Eames doesn't really see the house, he's inside it, but all he can think of is Arthur's house, how close the couch is to the door so flop down and groan into the cushions and Arthur will ask if he and the couch need a moment.  
  
The guy takes his coat from him and Eames carefully watches where he puts it, in case he needs to make an exit. It's just over the back of a chair and Eames rolls his shoulders. The guy nods his head down the hall-one story house-so they head to the guy's bedroom and Eames mentally reorganizes the room, better bed, no telly, desk under a window, view looking onto a more carefully groomed backyard, cushier carpet. The guy doesn't turn the light on so Eames just begins pulling his shirt off.  
  
"You said a good fuck, right? Top or bottom?" The guy asks, like he doesn't have a preference and Eames turns to look and the guy hasn't taken any clothing off yet, distracted by Eames, and Eames straightens. He is fit, he knows he's fit. Why shouldn't the guy look? The man grins at him, "Nice ink."  
  
Eames shrugs and tosses his shirt to the floor. Preference right. Well. He came here for a reason. He's sort of irritated that he has to say it outloud, that the guy can't just fucking infer or whatever what Eames _meant_ , but the guy looks mostly unconcerned about this. This doesn't need to be a big deal, he doesn't know why people make it one, everyone has to everything for a first time.  
  
"Top," he chokes out and then freezes, because that's not what he meant to say.  
  
But Hell, maybe he's been reading Arthur wrong entirely. Maybe Arthur wants Eames to fuck him. God, he needs to stop jumping to dumb conclusions, Arthur is just a normal bloke (except he's not), sometimes he'll want to fuck and sometimes he'll want to be fucked. He wants a big guy to hold him up and fuck up into him and Arthur will ride him and hold Eames by the hinges of his jaw and take possession of his mouth and- Eames can do that. He'll do anything.  
  
"Cool," The guy says and comes up behind him, slow and careful, hands big and warm on his ribs. Eames doesn't really know what to do-doesn't want to kiss him. One thing at a time, right?  
  
The guy fits them close together and begins mouthing at Eames neck, wet and slow and Eames realizes he's not even hard, and what the hell? He gets hard out of nowhere and now he has an objectively attractive guy pressing them together, rubbing his dick against Eames' and he has to work at it.  
  
Arthur would kiss him first, he thinks, mentally sliding away. He'd get the two of them onto his giant Queen bed and pull him closer, wouldn't need to pull, even, just put a hand around his back and Eames would come closer as Arthur lay back and he'd pull Eames on top and just get all riles up, feeling Eames muscles maybe the two of them playfighting a little. Maybe it wouldn't be all the time. Maybe Arthur just needed to...to feel safe.  
  
The guy gets him on the bed and his stubble scratches down Eames chest, and he and Eames wrestle off his jean and pants and socks and the guy basically rolls a rubber and his prick over Eames mouth in such quick succession that Eames barely notices the first, just quick, suckling heat.  
  
Arthur wouldn't blow him like that. He'd make Eames sit on his lap and grip the back of the chair, and Arthur would be all relaxed and predatory holding onto Eames hip and he's just have to say...say _Get hard for me_ and Eames would. And he'd be a prick tease, giving Eames not nearly enough and make him beg for it.  
  
Better than this, anyways.  
  
"Alright, come on." Eames says and he tugs the guy up and they get _his_ jean and pants and socks off, and it just feels so...bland. This is for research. There's some lube in the guy's pocket and Eames fumbles it out and then just sort of looks at it.  
  
It's fine. Arthur doesn't. He _left_ and he wants Eames to have outside experiences and it's fine. He's having stupid, fucking outside experiences and when Arthur gets back Eames will tell him about them and...  
  
"Dude? You okay?"  
  
"Look can we just...69 or something?"  
  
"Sure," The guy agrees, like it really doesn't matter.  
  
Eames feels sick down to his bones, but there's something like relief twisted in there too.

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

### Jan. 18th, 2011 07:02 am (local)

Re: Not Gonna Lie, A Lot Of These Author's Notes Will Be About Minecraft.

Now my dad has Minecraft. I don't even have words for how pleased I am about this. Now that you're picturing my father-daughter bonding moment, have some porn.  
  
Once Eames settles into sucking the guy off it's pretty easy. He's used to this, not used to lying on his side with the guy's mouth on him, hot suction like he un-corking wine bottles with his mouth as a hobby. And once Eames gets going, he's got no control over it, trying to press his hips into the bed, but the guy is something like the King Of Whatever Works For You, and just rolls with it, the only sounds quiet, sloppy suction, never once coming up for air or letting up off Eames dick, milking it with his lips like he needs it.  
  
Eames gets off far too quickly, but he doesn't have time to get embarassed, or even recover properly, because the guy shoves him around so Eames can put some real effort into what he's doing. The guy keeps his hands to himself and Eames had been wondering about that. For Arthur, obviously. He can't decide if Arthur would rather sit back and tell him what to do, Eames squeezed in between his legs, hands...on his knees? Behind his back? Behind his head? Over him with Arthur holding onto his wrists? Would he grab Eames head and keep it still between his hands, fucking in as he saw fit? Eames doesn't know, so he has to get better, and he can do this because in his head, every dick is Arthur's dick (even the really small ones, because _he doesn't care_ he really doesn't care if Arthur's got nothing going on, or everything, or too much, he will do it.) as long as they never talk. He can work past the smell, and the hands in his hair, or on his shoulder, or on the back of his neck, but it's the voice. He can never get beyond it if the voice is wrong, because Arthur's voice is the one thing he's got, locked up in his head and running laps.  
  
If he'd met Arthur in a bar, Arthur would have screwed him. Would have taken him home, and Eames would have thought nothing of it. Wouldn't have meant a thing to him, and maybe, yeah, maybe Arthur would have gotten bossy, and maybe Arthur would have wanted to fuck him, and hell, Eames probably would have let him, getting caught up in an edge of a whirlwind and just letting Arthur move him around, kneel up behind him, press his hands against the wall and shove on into him until Eames...he'd make it feel good, though.  
  
But then he would have had to go back to his mum's house, ridden hard and put away wet, and that would have been the end of that. One fuck. No Arthur. No idea.  
  
Afterwards the lie shoulder to shoulder on the bed, the guy stretched and blissed out, and Eames feeling like all of his organs have turned to cold, sticky four-day cold mucus, and might just drip right on out of him. The gay grabs a pack of fags off the bedside and offers Eames one. He takes it, leans over the guy can light it, and immediately feels more than a slight measure better.  
  
"So," The guy says, picking up an ashtray and laying it on his stomach, so it's in easy reach of Eames. "What is it?"  
  
"What's what?" Eames asks, because, well, yeah, he got cold feet there, but the guy hadn't seemed concerned, and if this is going to turn into a discussion on why Eames couldn't give it to someone, he was going to punch the guy. He just wants to enjoy his smoke, he's been off for weeks and while he was never really addicted, not _really, really_ , he does enjoy the feeling of sneaking warmth, the way the smoke is taking the chill out of his guts and making his blood stop being sluggish bog water in his veins. He likes the way it makes his brain sort of boot up and do something like working. After this he doesn't know what he's going to do. He just want to go home, but he doesn't know where that is at the moment. He has a key to two separate houses. He supposes he doesn't really have the right to complain.  
  
"You and your boyfriend, or lover, or best friend. Whoever. The guy you're in love with." The guy clarified. "What is it?"  
  
"I don't...there isn't anyone. Don't know what you're talking about." Eames sits up and begins scanning the room for his pants.

 

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

### Jan. 18th, 2011 07:22 am (local)

Re: I Wrote A Lot Of This During Work. Which Is Why There Isn't More Porn.

"Look, The guy says, sitting up. "It's nothing you did. It's fine. Whatever it is, it's fine, I don't mind. It's like...okay, this is going to sound dumb. It's like how bumblebees know how the earth is round, and there are angler fish fucking around the bottom of the ocean with all these testicles hanging off them because the males chewed into the females and liquified, or, like, how jellyfish don't have a central nervous system, or a brain or anything. A weird nature thing."  
  
"What the _fuck_ ?" Eames asks, because the testicle thing...what? That was enough to get him to stop looking for his trousers out of sheer nonsensical inanity.  
  
"Every guy I sleep with- I've slept with a _lot_ of guys, for the record which is sort of the other side of the coin here-has been taken by someone. And they only ever sleep with me to make their boyfriends, or whatever, jealous, or to get over them, or because I look like them, or they wants to feel better, or whatever. I mean, _everyone_ , and I have no idea why, but it's been going on fifteen years now, and there is not a single guy I've fucked who wasn't thinking real hard about someone else. So what is it with you? Want to get his attention? Do I look like him? Want to make him jealous?"  
  
"You are fucking with me." Eames says.  
  
  
"I swear I'm not. And I know, hey, right? None of my business, but after fifteen years you sort of start, 'Well, what's it going to be tonight'? And the second you said 'no talking' I was like, well, hey. There you go, I'm someone else. It's like magic. Or the worst superpower ever. I get laid, sure, but a lot of people cry in the middle and I get sick of the kind of vague look everyone gets when they're superimposing someone over me. You know?"  
  
"Why you keep doing it, then, if it's like that?"  
  
"Why do men keep fucking me to get what they want?" He retorted, but he didn't look upset, just sort of resigned and Eames suddenly felt like a bit of a prick, because he'd just been doing the same thing. He'd shove this guy out a window if it meant he could have Arthur here instead, smoking next to him, naked and relaxed in the streetlights.  
  
"So, what is it? You can tell me to fuck off, I don't mind, but after awhile you get sort of curious."  
  
He slips another fag between his lips and lights it with a long, slow drag, he pluck it out and hands it over, and it's not even an offer, more like a _eat your vegetables_ so Eames takes it, then takes a hit, because its in his hands. The guy is basically saying that he thinks Eames is stepping out on Arthur, but now, at least, they're both acknowledging that Arthur should be here and not this guy. Or, well, Eames should be with Arthur and this poor sod should be shagging someone else who's as heartsick as Eames is.  
  
"Not cheating," He says, "I wouldn't ever if he would just...but he says I'm too young, yeah? Like I need to live five more years and _then_ I'll be worth the effort." Eames watches the thing stream of smoke twirl out of his mouth and mingle into the hazy stuffing of streetlamps, stale smoke and his own muzzy thinking. "He doesn't think I know what I want, so he went out to some bar to make a fucking point."  
  
The guy doesn't say anything, just offers silence that melts into something sort of like companionable and easy, so Eames leans back agaisnt the pillows, and the guy tosses an arm over his eyes. After awhile the guy takes the burned out cigarette butts and the ashtray and puts them back on the table.  
  
"What's he like?" And he's not looking at Eames, so Eames closes his eyes and turns toward the wall.

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

### Jan. 18th, 2011 07:44 am (local)

Re: Delta Echo Alpha Romeo Echo Alpha Mike Echo Sierra, Sierra Tango Oscar Papa India Tango.

I have to learn the phonetic alphabet for work. We're going to be multitasking.  
  
"Smart." He says, because Arthur is, he knows something about everything, and-even better- he knows how to talk. Eames can't explain it, but it's not just that Arthur knows how to talk about shit-like, he does his research, and whatever-and that he's an engaging speaker, or that he actually is listening to you instead of just waiting for his turn to speak and coding out in the middle bits, it's like...fucking. it's dumb. It's like you're more intelligent, or better for _having_ talked to him. "Not like, know-it-all-goody-two-shoes smart, but, you know. Real smart. The sort of smart that does and does things. Like that. And he's got this. I dunno. Uh...way of talking, I guess, which just grabs your attention, right? Like part of you is always sort of aware where he is in a room, you can just _feel_ it, down in your bones, and then you sort of start wanting some of that back. Fuck, sorry, this is stupid."  
  
"It's fine."  
  
Eames wonders how many guys have inarticulately tried to bumble through how amazing someone else is, while lying in this guy's bed. That is, if his story isn't just a bunch of crock and bull.  
  
"You seriously-?" Eames begins, but the guy cuts him off, like he's had the conversation one too many times.  
  
"Every single time. I should start charging, it's a service, really." The guy gets up and stretches, "Revenge, orgasm, and therapy all in one. You want to head out or stay here till morning?"  
  
"Do you mind?" Eames asks.  
  
"At this point? Whatever." The guys says, grabs a towel and next Eames hears, he's in the shower. Eames gets up and gets dressed and goes, closing the door behind himself and walking until he finds a street sign, and then goes.

\---

  
  
Arthur mainlines the paperwork-he's good at paperwork, and used to to the rules and regulations here-and then stands in the anteroom a moment to try and center himself, looking for the stable, calm Bedrock underneath all the sedimentary layers of needless internal turmoil (Or Tursoil, Maxwell's girlfriend would say, no, come on, focus) Its usually down there somewhere (he'd kissed Eames), sometimes it took him a bit to find it (he was your responsibility, you're supposed to help him), sometimes he needed to go through the motions a bit to reach it (You were supposed to be _helping him_ ), but it is always, eventually, excavated. (He trusts you, he needs you, and you're going to just give into your dick.)  
  
Maxwell doesn't mind is he takes a bit, he himself usually needs a minute or two to get into his headspace. Or his character, Arthur isn't wholly sure which. The last thing Arthur wants to do is rush in when neither of them are ready for it.  
  
But its taking longer than it should. He can remember how it _should_ feel, he knows what the confidence will taste like in his mouth, knows how the responsibility will fit around his shoulders, knows how the power and possibility will go wicked sharp in his gut, but none of its there (He needed you tonight, and you left. What will be there when you get home?) Eames keeps getting in the way, Eames expression when Arthur had bustled out, the way he started down at the key, like he couldn't decide whether to smile, or cry, or throw it right back at Arthur's face. He keeps struggling, this is ridiculous, he's slipped into his headspace by _accident_ enough times these last few weeks. It should be nearly impossible to get even the scent of it right now.

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

### Jan. 18th, 2011 08:08 am (local)

Re: WHISKEY HOTEL YANKEE, ARTHUR, WHISKEY HOTEL YANKEE?

"Arthur, are you alright?" Cynthia asks, and how long has he been here? He's sitting, when did he start sitting? God, he's lost it.  
  
He looks up from his seat, his hands on either side of his head, like he can just dig out what he wants from his skull. His mind has never betrayed him like this. At work he can always focus and work. At home he can always unwind and relax. In scene he can always focus and dominate. But right now his mind is all tangled up and twisted like a country road he's gotten lost on in the middle of the night. Cynthia-nom de plume Lady Cyn- is crouched is standing in front of him, which means Maxwell beeped in to say Arthur's been too long, which mean they thinks he might have fainted or passed out or something, but he's just been sitting here for-God, _twenty minutes_ .  
  
He looks up at her and she frowns, like she cracked open an egg and found a dead baby chick inside, confused and nervous and off her supper. "You've been in here awhile, Arthur. Maxwell got worried. You need to call off, you can. You'll get a full refund."  
  
"No, No." He bends down again. "I need to do this, I just _can't_ ."  
  
"What do you need?" She asks, and she smells like leather and disinfectant and vanilla, and she shares his preference for well-tailored suits instead of more stereotypical fetish gear (though, as she also pointed out, whatever got you there, you might as well take it.). She's much more about the technical aspect of domination, the way a whip falls and snaps, the aesthetic of a paddle mark, versus a crop versus a cane, the way knots should fall on a human body, and he's mentally babbling and he _doesn't do that_ .  
  
He needs Eames to be in the next room. He needs to open that door and find Eames okay and balanced and happy and waiting for him. Or penitent and nervous and so fucking determined to see it through, or angry and vicious and struggling and eventually giving in because he needs to, because he needed the struggle, but also needs the eventual loss. It doesn't matter, because he won't get out of Arthur's _head_ , growing like a disease through his synapses and taking hold and keeping him here. He needs Eames, and who he has won't satisfy that craving.  
  
"You need me to talk you into it?" She asks, putting her hands on his shoulders and he does, because he needs to not think, just not think because his entire mind whittles down to a singular, vertical point and all things outside that mean nothing for a few hours. "Sometimes things just go wrong."  
  
"Not for me they don't." He says. "This doesn't happen to me."  
  
"I could make an erectile dysfunction joke, if that would make you feel better." She says after a beat, and he isn't any closer then he was before. He doesn't respond and she pushes his hands away and puts her fingers agaisnt his temples, enough pressure that he's paying attention to that.  
  
"Close your eyes. Good, now sit up straight, square your shoulders. Very nice. Square your feet. No, Arthur, you know how to do this. You need to own your space, physical posture reflects mental posture. Fake it if you have to, pretend you're the Queen of England if that's what's going to get you there. You've got the presence of a four right now, and I need a ten. Head up, chin up, there you go. Come on. _Own it_ . Good. Now, look me in the eye."  
  
He opens his eyes and he feels better, closer, and he stares at her, until the outright challenge kicks him in the gut and he's staring her down. She still has her hands on him, irritatingly, and he grabs her wrists and feels her pulse beating agaisnt his hands. It doesn't speed up, she isn't afraid, isn't anticipatory, and he stands, squaring off, and they stand, nose to nose, jacket to jacket, the brim of his hat pressing into his forehead, bristling.  
  
He's angry, first, but that slides away and he's steadier, prepared for a challenge, he can do anything, right now, and she smiles.  
  
"Ready? He's been waiting for you, not doing what you told him to, no doubt."  
  
"Of course I'm ready." He fixes the cuffs of his shirt and buttons his jacket, straightens his tie. He dismisses her-he'll thank her later, after the crash-but right now he needs to keep a grip on the edges of his resolve and keep control.  
  
He opens the door and steps in.

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

### Jan. 18th, 2011 10:08 am (local)

Re: Warning: Somewhat violent BDSM scene, consensual, though.

Or BravoDeltaSierraMike scene, rather  
  
Arthur steps into the room, takes in the surroundings. He likes this room because it's simple, but not austere. The floor is a warm, inviting hardwood, there's hooks in the walls, supplies in the walnut-furnished wardrobe, and the air smells like something spicy, something warm and singular and tantalizing. It makes him hungry, in the depths of his mind, makes the lava on the bedrock of his calm roll, greedy and vicious. He wants to drag someone in there will him and let them burn to death, cool off and solidify across mountain ranges and archipelagos over and over again. Craft an entire world with someone until their memories are landscapes, and they don't have a relationship, but rather, geology.  
  
Maxwell is sitting when he comes in, sprawled in one of the plush wingback chairs, staring right up at him. Not only is he indolent enough to be _sitting_ when Arthur very strictly told him to stand and wait. It should matter how long it takes Arthur, if he ever decides to show up at all. He doesn't react right away, like Maxwell clearly wants him to. Instead he removes his jacket and hangs it up on the hook and sets that out of the way, then turns to regard Maxwell.  
  
"You're late." Maxwell says, slumped, arms open and limp over the armrests, one leg resting on the seat of the chair, other stretched forward and Arthur walks along the edges of the room, still ignoring him, moving to the wardrobe and Maxwell is watching, but Arthur doesn't let him see what he takes out before he goes back to the chair.  
  
Maxwell rolls his head back to look at him, opens his mouth the damn himself further, and Arthur isn't in the mood for games. He ordered something, it should have happened. No excuses, and certainly not all this insolence. Arthur gives specific orders, and he expects those to be followed, not flaunted. And when they are he doesn't bend the culprit over and call him a bad boy.  
  
He is a dominant. He dominates.  
  
Arthur braces one hand on the chair, and then roughly removes Maxwell from his seat and the chair falls back the other way with a satisfying thus. Maxwell stumbles and turns around and Arthur is around barrel him down to the ground, catching him off his center and they slid along the floor Maxwell's back hitting the wall and Arthur is already moving while Maxwell is trying to get his feet, but he doesn't look scared. He looks every inch as vicious as Arthur feels. He's coming up for air, grabbing onto Arthur's shoulder and his knee comes up, But Arthur moves and he falls again, lost his grip, lost his balance, and Arthur takes advantage, attacks, subjugates.  
  
This is as choreographed as any fight on stage, on screen, its too big and too grand and while they mean it, the point isn't to injure.  
  
Arthur is moving to get Maxwell pinned against the floor, bodies moving, rolling, fitting against each other and clashing apart. Maxwell is strong and thrashing under him, scrambling to find his feet, but he doesn't know how to move. He's never known how to use all that muscle, and Arthur knows how to use every inch of himself to get what he wants. where to go and Arthur gets his arm twist it up behind his back until Maxwell groans with the ache.  
  
Arthur presses them together, Maxwell the filling between him and the wall and he's being spread thin. had them both against the wall Maxwell panting, head arched and throat up agaisnt the darkly colored wallpaper, all of him stumbling and needing Arthur to hold him up, struggling to find his balance, but he can't, he can't do it on his own, and Arthur put him here. Arthur is the one who dragged him up and got him here and his vision shifts and suddenly it's not Maxwell at all under his hands, but Eames, Eames breathing like he can't get the air, and trying to get a look at him and not giving up, not for a second.  
  
He kicks Eames's legs too wide for him balance and he turns his head to pant across the texture of the wall. Arthur doesn't saw anything, get's Eames's free arm, the ripple of the muscle as he tries to drag himself up and get back in the game Arthur grabs him by the wrist.

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

### Jan. 18th, 2011 10:21 am (local)

Re: MOAR TOMORROW

"Give it to me." Arthur says, quiet, barely audible over Eames's breathing. He waits until Eames stops struggling and he drags the arm down, and he thought about getting the handcuffs, but there bite is sharp, and he doesn't want this to be harsh. The nylon rope broken in well, supple and clean and a good length for his purposes. he steps back and Eames begins tipping over, eyes wide, but not scared. He's not scared, he's not cowed and the Arthur smiles, because that's what he wants. Arthur hauls him up, spins him around and begins wrapping the rope over his wrists, tilted the side, his hip hard against Eames' pelvis, and he's hard, but that isn't the point.  
  
He steps back and Eames falls to the floor, hands tied and a lead in Arthur's hand. Arthur rights the chair and sits down, squaring his feet, sitting up in the chair, watching.  
  
Eames just breathes, fingers twitching, shifting his weight from foot to foot as he waits for whatever is going to come next. But nothing does. Arthur is going to make him wait, wait until he can't take it and he has to open that plush, beautiful, filthy mouth and then Arthur is going to punish him.  
  
Eames needs guidelines. He needs his actions to be acknowledged by someone, and Arthur will. Arthur will let Eames suck chocolate off his fingers, sit in his laps and swallow like he needs it, tongue twisting between his fingers and Arthur's hand stroking down his side. Arthur will tie Eames down and leave his naked ass up and bare and vulnerable and taking him up on one of his many offers to spank him, until Eames is crying, but he'd still enjoy it because Arthur is acknowledging him, is keeping his promises.  
  
Arthur would keep all of his promises, he's not going to break a single one, not _one_ as long as Eames stays with him. He'll leave, find someone new, but he'll _remember_ Arthur. Arthur will be there, sunk under his skin, even when Eames goes off to do new and better things and leaves Arthur alone with his work and his house and his quiet.  
  
Eames clears his throat.  
  
"You took too long." Maxwell says and Arthur jerks, rocked completely out of his headspace, jettisoned out and he has whiplash, all the drop with none of the high. He lowers his arm, lets the rope fall out of his hand. Eames. Not. He was trying to forget him. He'd been _focused_ , nothing got between him and his focus. That _doesn't happen_ .  
  
"Arthur?" Maxwell rushes over, all easy grace now that he's not pretending to be something like what Arthur needs. "Arthur, what's wrong?"  
  
"I can't do it." Arthur stares at the wall. "I can't get him to leave."  
  
"Arthur, Jesus. Okay, come on. Untie me."  
  
He unties Maxwell's wrists, quickly, and his hands are shaking and Maxwell is the one who grabs his jacket and puts it on him, is the one who walks him to the aftercare area, with all the squishy pillows and beanbags and he should be checking on Maxwell, he should be... A glass of water is in his hand and Maxwell is sitting across from him.  
  
Arthur's had him on his lap before. They've had a scene intense enough do they just sort of curled up on one of the beanbags and not moved for an hour, and they'd come out laughing and tussling and playful. He needs to help Maxwell.  
  
"I'm fine, man, you're the one who looks like a train just ran over your amygdala out of nowhere. Drink that." Maxwell said and Arthur did, in several quick swallows and puts it down.  
  
"I didn't know that would happen. I wouldn't play like that. I fucked up." He drags his fingers through his hair.  
  
"Which is why this is _freaking me out_ , you've never been anything less then, forgive the pun here, on _top_ of things. So what is this."  
  
"There's a...a kid."  
  
Maxwell stares at him and Arthur presses his forehead into the heel of his hand. "You don't need to give me the warnings, I won't play until I sort this out. I know-"  
  
"I know you won't." Maxwell says. "That's not the point. What kid, did you have a kid?"  
  
"No-no, Not. He's not a kid. Not, he's. God, he's the most perfect sub you've ever _seen_ and he doesn't even realize he's doing it, and I _can't_ and he just keeps pushing."  
  
"You can drive like this?"  
  
"I'll be fine." Arthur says. "Just. I need to."  
  
Maxwell steps back and Arthur grabs his coat and goes.

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

### Jan. 19th, 2011 05:04 am (local)

Re: Burrito! I Have a Burrito, You Guys! A Burrito!

When Arthur gets home he doesn't know what he expects to see. Eames sitting on the couch waiting for him? An empty and dark house? Eames drinking himself into a maudlin mess right there at the kitchen table?  
  
His house is dark, but that's Eames coat on the rack. Arthur breaths out, slow and easy, and takes off his shoes and heads to the...why lie? Eames room. No one else is going to be staying there, and even if they did, that's the room that Eames stays in.  
  
Arthur stands outside Eames door, rubbing his forehead. It's a school day tomorrow, he should wake Eames up. But they need to talk, about...he needs to sort this out in his head, he needs to sort this out in _Eames_ head, put some hard boundaries that they aren't going to cross. It's too late for the kissing, it's a _bit_ past that, and Eames isn't going to give that up. But. Well. Kissing isn't bad, not really. It's only in the last few decades that it's become a sign, chiefly of romantic intent, and even then that's not true worldwide. Mother's kiss their children, friends kiss, it doesn't need to always mean that you want to climb into someone's pants and stay there with them.  
  
Well. In this case it _does_ , but the kissing is still something that can drop off. Any farther than that, though and- They need to talk, and Arthur does things that need to get done. He opens the door and stops. Clicks on the light.  
  
All the furniture in the room has been shoved against the wall with the window and the closet. The other two walls are free, and the honey-colored paint is covered over in broad sweeps of charcoal, a drop cloth over the carpet. It doesn't make any sense yet, heavy lines bleeding into the large spaces of gradient shading. There's a frenetic energy to the way it's ordered-choppy lines, quick dragging swipes in the shading. He's not an artist, but he's also not completely brain dead.  
  
He leaves the room and goes back to his, because three guesses to where Eames is, first two don't count.  
  
Eames is curled up on his side, hugging his pillow as he sleeps, and maybe he's faking it, and maybe he's actually asleep, but he at least washed up before climbing in, still damp from his shower and Arthur sighs and takes a hold of Eames shoulder, shaking him until Eames blinks and stares up at him blearily. "'Lo."  
  
"We need to have a talk."  
  
"Can't it wait until morning?" Eames asks, shoving his face back into the pillow. "School night."  
  
"Don't give me that, come on. I'll let you have a beer."  
  
That, if anything makes Eames tense up more, muscles bunches to angry knots under his skin and Arthur sits down on the bed, next to Eames's shins. "Fine. I'll talk. We can't have a relationship, Eames. I will be your friend, I'll always be your friend, and my house is open to you as long as you need it. But we can't be anything other than that."  
  
Eames doesn't respond for a moment the then tilts his head to stare at Arthur. "Ever?"  
  
Arthur sighs. Honesty. He's going to be honest. "I'm not saying it won't ever, or can't ever happen, but the parameters need to change, if everything stays the same then it'll fall apart. Right now it can't work, there's too many outside influences."  
  
Eames sits up, "What, so, in a year in two weeks it'll be okay? Magically?"  
  
"No." Arthur steeples his fingers and pressing them against his chin. "I don't know who you're going to be when you're 18, or when you're 21, or any other objective age, and neither to do you."  
  
"I know I'll still want you." Eames tugs himself out from under the blankets and kneels next to Arthur, but doesn't touch and Arthur looks him in the eye, because he isn't going to hide from this conversation.  
  
"I'm not saying you won't. I'm not saying anything about how you feel now or how you'll feel in the future. This is about what sort of relationship we're talking about. I'm older than you."  
  
"I don't care." Eames sets his jaw. "I don't _care_ , and I won't tell anyone, I won't."  
  
"That's not the point, Eames. The point is that I have more power than you do, right now as an adult. And no, thankfully, I don't have any legal power over you or I wouldn't be considering this at all. But we're not on equal footing here, Eames and I that brings me to my second point."

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

### Jan. 19th, 2011 05:20 am (local)

Re: Dear Anon Meme, There Is Nothing You Can Do To My Soul That My Job Hasn't Already Done In MSDOS

Eames looks ready to argue his way through a pit of snakes as is, and Arthur needs so distance so he gets up and paces a moment, before turning and looking back at the bed. "How do you picture us?"  
  
"What?" Eames asks, feet on the ground, and he looks like he's ready to tackle Arthur to the ground and keep him there until everything suddenly becomes better.  
  
"What are your expectations?"  
  
"I don't...Arthur I don't have any... I'm not expecting anything." Eames swallows.  
  
"You get upset when I bring you the wrong sort of crispy chicken, don't give me that." Arthur leans against the wall and rubs his temples. God, he should have just slept on the couch until he got over the drop. He's got a headache like clubs have a bassline. "You have something pictured in your head, some idealized version of what we'd be like. I'd like to know what I'm up against."  
  
Eames swallows, audible in the quiet of the room and then he's looking down at his feet. "Well. We fuck a lot."  
  
Arthur laughs, because, well, yes. Obvious. "And?"  
  
Eames rubs the back of his neck. "We just. I don't know. It's like how it is. You know. With...fucking everything."  
  
"Specificity, Eames." Arthur prods.  
  
"It's like. With the rules and stuff." Eames bites at his thumbnail, looking everywhere that's nowhere near Arthur. "How things are now, but. You know."  
  
"I don't know, Eames. You'll need to tell me."  
  
Eames legs bounces in agitation and he gets up to pace. "Come on Arthur, don't make me tell you all this shit. You don't want me so can't we just...drop it, alright? We can forget the kissing and whatever. I'll go and-"  
  
"I never said I didn't want you." Arthur interrupts, quiet and Eames looks at him, frozen and hanging in the middle of the room, staring. "I said we can't, right now if you'd like, because of various external factors. First, though, I want you to tell me what you're picturing when you stare at me like that." And he knows this taste, he knows the feeling around his shoulders and this steadiness. On _accident_ , where before he needs to be dragged into it. His headspace is all wrapped up in Eames, right now, every single inch of him wants to give Eames the support and care and discipline he so obviously, clearly needs, and maybe if he were someone else, someone better, then he could give Eames that without wanting _everything_ , but he isn't and he can't.  
  
Eames swallows and his hands grasp at nothing before he closes his eyes. "Do you realize your voice does that?"  
  
"Does what, Eames?"  
  
"You give me rules, right? Rules for the house, okay, fine. Good. At first I was like, whatever, you don't want me to smoke in your prim little paradise, whatever. No skin off my nose, right? So, but." Eames made a frustrated noise from behind his teeth. "You know. I just. I like them."  
  
"The rules?" Arthur asks.  
  
"Yes." Eames begins to look like he's patting himself down for a smoke, before realizing he's just in a pair of sweats and then crossing his arms. "And not like _he just needs boundaries_ or whatever responsibility, parenting book bullshit. I mean, like, you give me rules and I. I just. This is dumb."  
  
"I deserve an explanation." Arthur says. "Would it help if after you finish I told you what I picture?"  
  
Eames flushes and licks his lips nervously. "Yeah. Okay. Yeah." He  
  
"Then go on." Arthur says and Eames is staring at him now, standing there and Arthur stares back, and God, this is delicious. This is everything that before wasn't, unsure and untested, it's verbal instead of physical-they aren't touch at all, entire room of space between them, but Arthur can _feel_ Eames, could hold out his hand and Eames would be there, standing close and ready, not even knowing what he was ready for, because he just _is_ .  
  
"If we were...in a thing, together. I'd thought. I mean. I always think about it as you giving me more rules. And stuff. Not all sex stuff, either, like...I don't know. When I can get off." Eames looks down, but Arthur just keeps calm and that seems to settle Eames a bit. "I mean, we'd shag a lot, and whatever, but we'd also. There'd be other stuff. Too. And it wouldn't just be the rules and whatever. I just." He huffs out and drops his head to look at the floor. "Can't I just want you?"

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

### Jan. 19th, 2011 07:06 am (local)

Re: When I Kiss Your Lips I Want To Sink Down To The Bottom Of The Sea

 

Arthur wanted nothing more than to grab Eames and pull him down and just smother them both until the only two people in the world they had to worry about were each other, so none of this would be relevant anymore, so they could be two characters in a book, and they'd be allowed to be hopelessly co-dependent and dysfunctional, because characters can do that. Characters can be each other's worlds. If they had Daemons Arthur would hand his to Eames and let Eames wrap himself around it and fall into the feeling. If everyone in the world died and they had to make a new life somewhere on only white flour and honey, then he would do so.  
  
But they aren't characters in a story, and Arthur doesn't have a convenient allegory of his soul to have this conversation for him, and there's nothing he can do to make this easier, so Eames just stands there and they breathe until Eames shrugs. "That's all. Really. I just. If it's not like how I picture then I'm okay with that too. I don't. I mean. I'll take it anyway that I can get it."  
  
Arthur closes his eyes lets that coil down in his stomach and lets that open entirely not continents in his head, expansive landscapes he hasn't considered, biomes and architectural possibilities he hadn't let himself consider, and he lets himself have them, just for a second, before opening his eyes.  
  
"Do you want to know what I picture Eames?" Arthur asks, and he doesn't feel embarrassed at all. He will later, he'll feel all of this later, but right now he feels like he could do anything and it would be right, any judgement call he makes right now would be the correct one. So he stays pressed against the wall and doesn't move a single inch closer to Eames, and Eames seems stuck where he is. Which is good. That's good. They need to stay in their spaces, because this... Arthur keeps breathing. He just has to keep breathing.  
  
"I picture you, first, having friends of your own. I don't care so much if they're your own age, but people you _don't_ want rules from, people you can talk to, people who no is going to ask _why is a 16 year old spending so much time at a 25 year old man's house._ or, for that matter, why is the 25-year-old letting him."  
  
Eames opens his mouth to talk, protest, defend, and Arthur holds up a hand. "No, Eames, this is my version. And in my version you have friends, enough that you're going out and doing things- _not_ involved with inebriation-people who you will, inevitably, do stupid things with. With, Eames. That being the key word. I already did most of my stupid things when I was younger, so I won't do them again. You'd do them around me, behind my back, under my nose, but I would never be doing them with you."  
  
"What about them being a bad influence?" Eames asks, "You're a good influence, right? With my schoolwork and my behavior and whatever? What if I get in with, you know, whoever and...you know."  
  
"You choose who you let influence you, Eames. Clearly I don't want you to get into a bad crowd, but I trust that you won't. And you could be a good influence on someone else, if you wanted. You can make friends, you just haven't tried to because you don't want to throw down roots. You don't want to _be_ in this city, so you're doing everything in your power not to be."  
  
Eames' jaw clicks shut.  
  
"I picture you with a hobby you love, something that could turn into a career, maybe, but more importantly a goal. Right now you're just living and doing what I have to, and I don't know how much of you liking rules is because you want someone to give you direction so you won't have to think about it, or because you just like them. I want you to find something you enjoy doing, something you do better than anyone else, and I want you to want to get better at it without me or anyone else needing to bribe or barter or push you into it."  
  
Arthur sinks into the support of the wall and looks to the ceiling. "That's what I picture before anything else, that's what I want in a relationship with you, for you to be able to be able to break-up with me if you need to, because as it stands, I honestly don't think you would."  
  
"I wouldn't want to." Eames maintains, stubbornly.

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

### Jan. 19th, 2011 07:10 am (local)

Re: Love You Madly Is One Of This Fic's Many Theme Songs

"If people knew they were going to break-up before they started dating, then they wouldn't date at all. People change. You see sides of people you weren't anticipating. Right now if things went wrong? If things went _really_ wrong, for whatever reason, you would stay with me because you don't think you have anywhere else to go."  
  
"No where else to go because I'm a dumb kid." Eames mumbles.  
  
"Part of it is that you're young, yes." Arthur acknowledges, "You haven't had time to make the connections and networks that someone my age would have. A lot of it is that you aren't trying. You're not a social leper, and not everyone out there is as bad as you claim. So." Arthur says. "That's my hard limit."  
  
"What?"  
  
"That, right there? Until that situation is true, until what I see is true, I will not go any further than we have. End of story, hard limit, I will not go beyond this point. Nothing you say or do will convince me otherwise, and I won't respond well if you try and push me."  
  
"I wouldn't-"  
  
"Like the kissing?" Arthur asks. "You knew when you asked for that I wouldn't be comfortable with it, but you did anyways, which forced me to choose something I didn't want to because I can't make you do anything. I can make suggestions and you can choose to follow them or not. But I made that choice, and I'll deal with the consequences of it. But you pushed me, and he is me telling you I won't go any further."  
  
Eames mouth twitches like he's trying not to frown, so he just looks away. "I just wanted...just..."  
  
"I know what you wanted. And you got some of it, and I hope that's enough for you, I really do, because I'm not doing anymore."  
  
Eames nods, once, in understanding. "What about all the stuff I said, doesn't that. Isn't it. I mean. It's weird, isn't it? I thought...that's not. Normal."  
  
"No, Eames. You aren't weird. Well. _That_ isn't weird."  
  
"Piss off." Eames retorts on reflex and Arthur almost laughs.  
  
"It's fine, but the sort of relationship you're describing, _in_ that situation it is...beyond vital for you to have the sort of support base and self-motivated drive and healthy self-interest, and we can talk about that later. First, though." Arthur reaches into his pocket for his wallet and tugs out a business card from his collection.  
  
"I don't want you getting the wrong impression from the Internet about all of that, and I can't give you the perspective you need. I'm always here to talk, but call him and tell him Arthur told you to, when you want to have a better idea of what I'm talking about."  
  
Eames looks down at the card and then nods. "So. We're. Done here, then?"  
  
"For now, yes." Arthur stands and suddenly he's exhausted. Suddenly his head hurts and his stomach aches and he wants to tuck Eames into him and just...grip on. But he can't, so he just turns to his bed. "We'll just put the rest of this on hold until later."  
  
"How long?" Eames asks. "I mean. I'll try. I will, try. But. How long do I-"  
  
"I'll know it when I see it. And you can try to impress me, or prove you've done it, but it'll be easier on you if you just...do it for its own sake."  
  
Eames is quiet for long enough that Arthur considers just falling down into bed and ignoring everything until it goes away and then Eames is close behind him and resting his forehead between his shoulder blades, a warm and heavy weight against his back, and Arthur just stands there and supports it, because he can't turn around and do anything else.  
  
"I know. I know it makes you...I know you didn't want to. And if you say no, I'll...I won't ask for it back. I just thought. I dunno. I don't know what."  
  
"What, Eames?"  
  
"Do I still get to kiss you? It's just that... as long as that's there, it'll be fine. But if you don't want to, we won't. But. Can we?"  
  
Arthur bows his head and shudders out a reluctant, guilty "Yes."

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

### Jan. 19th, 2011 10:39 am (local)

Re: I HAVE TAKEN A SHOWER. LET'S DO THIS THING.

Eames goes to his art class with new found purpose, or, at least, several new found purposes. He's going to poke and proud at every single person until one of them turns up interesting, and. You know. Whatever. See what happened from there.  
  
The problem was figuring out what to say to people. He stood there at his easel and frowned as the teacher had them make action scribbles and lines of motion to try and "capture the kinetic portion of what you're drawing' which was kind of nonsense, but, whatever, it was like stretching before exercising, right? You just had to do it or you'd fuck something up.  
  
It wasn't like he couldn't talk to people, it was just that there was usually something to talk about. Like that it was bloody cold, or hey? Have a light? Or, you know, something, and if the other person just sort of shrugged him off, then whatever. No loss for him, just making conversation.  
  
"Mine keep turning out like angry tornado people." One girl said to the girl next to her. "Like, they'll touch down and smash all the houses."  
  
"Focus your circles." The other girl said, leaning to look, "like, smaller circles."  
  
"My stick is too big." The girl said and Eames held out his hand, because he'd taken a smaller one, to try and learn some control over what he was doing. She blinked, frowned and lit up in understanding.  
  
"Oh hey, thanks. And thanks for not saying that's what she said." She added, switching out their charcoal bits.  
  
"Wouldn't dream of it." He shrugged as the model went into a different pose and they had to start a new scribble.  
  
"You know, because then I would have had to say 'not to you she didn't' and I don't think the instructor likes laughing in class."  
  
The instructor didn't. She didn't like talking either, but she was involved in something across the room. Eames nodded and the girl went back to her easel and he went back to his. Well then. That seemed easy enough. Just talk about the class. Right. Easy. Okay then.  
  
He looks over, but both girls are focused on the model, and so he goes back to looking at his own, and then to the other side where a forty year old woman is attacking the board like she's scrubbing away at a spot and all her fingers are small little things, while he's making broad sweeps of motion. He looks back to his board and decided he can try again at break. When everyone is eating their sandwiches or soup or whatever.  
  
The problem, is, though, that he's not dumb, or socially thick. He knows body language, he watched _Lie To Me_ , and everyone sitting alone is all crossed legs and elbows tucked in and huddled up, and the people together are entirely angled towards one another, and no one looks particularly like they want to talked to a tattoo'd teenager with too many muscles. Well. Whatever. Fine.  
  
"Hey," One guy said as Eames moved to sit by himself and doodle some or stare at the ceiling. "Come on, let me see."  
  
Eames frowned. "Uh?"  
  
"Your tattoos." He waved and Eames came over. He was wearing a tanktop to cut down on laundry and the guy nodded. "You going to get more?"  
  
"Yeah," Eames shrugged, "Probably. I mean, you need to think about that first, before you put anything on, because the best you can do with a tattoo you don't want anymore is get it covered up."  
  
The man nodded, "I wanted a full sleeve when I was younger." He tugs up the sleeve of his polo and points. "I got this far before I ran out."  
  
All Eames can see is a little mole, just small dot of ink and he laughs. "Weak, man."  
  
The guy shrugs it off, "It wasn't even the pain, really, it was the buzzing noise. It was just buzzing and buzzing and getting closer and closer and I just couldn't handle it."  
  
"See, I'm afraid of needles." The middle aged woman who had been standing next to him says. "I always have been. They used to have to get four nurses to come in and hold me down so I could get my flu shot."  
  
"Well, it isn't like that, I mean, the problem with those needles is they go in the muscle, right, and then you can feel the stuff in your arm-"  
  
"Please stop." She grimaces, rubbing her arm.

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

### Jan. 19th, 2011 11:26 am (local)

Re: This Is Just a Thing To Tide You Over Until Foxxcub Blows Me Out Of The Water

 

"-sorry, but, ah, with tattoos, it doesn't go all the way in, it's just over the skin, and it pricks and burns, yeah, but after awhile you sort of start...I don't know. Zen-ing out on it, I guess. I mean, I just sort of think, hey, I want to keep this with me, I got to earn it and then you just go with the moment. And a good artist will keep talking with you, try and get you to relax."  
  
"I haven't even gotten my ears pieced." She says holding onto her earlobes. "But I looked at those girls, you know, with their backs with bamboo stalks." She sighs. "It's too late now, anyways. I couldn't get one now."  
  
"Age is relative." Eames said, looking down at Arthur's notebook, clutched in his hand, doesn't remember grabbing it, but there it is. "I mean. Isn't too early start living your life, is it? So there should be a cut off point where you have to stop, should there? I mean, it's not like it's too late for you to take up drawing, is it? Should be too late to do anything you've always wanted to do, because all you're going to do is get older." He shrugged. "Why you taking this on, then?"  
  
"Oh, me?" She fiddled with her coffee cup, "It just seemed like something nice to do. You know, sit on the back porch with a cup of coffee and just draw the trees, or the ducks in the lake. Even if they aren't ever very good, it be nice to just feel like I could." She looks to the first man, the guy with the mole-ink and asks the same question.  
  
"Ever since I fucked up my back I've had to work at a call center. I just want to do something with my hands, and drawing is about the only thing allowed, but all I can do are amoeba and stick figures. And who wants to look at those all day? You?" He nods to Eames.  
  
"Keeps me out of trouble." He defaults. The conversation meanders into work and he's got nothing to say about that, so he just sort of nods along at the right points, and is thankful, a bit, when break is over and the thing starts up again so he can get out.  
  
That's the problem. Not that he _can't_ talk to people, it's just that eventually everything turns into mundanities (instead of starting there and moving off) and he just can't make himself care. He doesn't like talking about school, or hearing people talk about work, or the like. He wants them to go bigger, be better, but they just sort of follow the path of least resistance and end up in a big, wet, hole, like all water does anyways.  
  
And yeah, maybe, fine, he's being standoffish, and he does...he's going to try. He's going to fucking _try_ , but he can't make himself care about boring things. Life is about stupid, boring things. If you;re talking you should move above that, talk about better things that you don't have to slog through. Maybe he should join a book club. A good one, that reads good books, books like Arthur's books, that are everything but mundane, even when they're working through the long dialogue bits that are usually sort of pointless.  
  
"Well, if you don't care about the characters, then any quiet moments are going to be dull," is what Arthur has to say about it. And Eames is just now getting into books where the characters are more than just names and a series of actions, and it's a revelation. He wants to talk to someone about _that_ .  
  
He'll ask Arthur about it, or look it up himself. There's got to be some club somewhere about those books, right?

\---

  
  
He's in Arthur's house for a total of six minutes. He calls before he comes over, mostly to say he's out of class, and then he gets there and unlocks the door with his key, because he can, and Arthur doesn't even seem surprised when Eames walks into Arthur's room, just looks up from work and begins to stand, but Eames cups his cheek and presses their lips together before he can do anything.

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

### Jan. 19th, 2011 11:27 am (local)

Re: MOAR TOMORROW

 

Maybe if he kisses Arthur, Arthur will be less upset about it. That way it isn't his fault, it's on Eames, and Eames has to take responsibility.  
  
Arthur still has his hand on the back of the chair to stand and Eames tilts his head, not going for more, well, maybe just a bit brush agaisnt Arthur's lower lip, sort of like, well, if you want to kiss back, Eames is fine with that. But he doesn't, doesn't pull away either, and Eames pulls away, even though Arthur's lips are soft, and warm, and Eames can smell him so _clearly_ when he's this close, and he's not good at smells so he couldn't name them, but it makes his stomach twist and he just wants to bury his nose in Arthur's neck and not come up.  
  
He drops his hand and his head. "I came to say goodnight. My class went well." He adds.  
  
"That's good, I'm glad." Arthur says and he's sitting back down again and Eames swallows.  
  
"I'll clean up, your, uh. Guest room. Later. It washes off pretty easily, so you don't need to worry or anything."  
  
"I thought you'd finish it first." Arthur says putting papers away in the proper files and then standing up, pushing his chair in.  
  
"Finish it?"  
  
"You should always finish what you start, Eames. Such as," Arthur says, then cups Eames cheek and tilts his head in and kisses him, properly, lips moving slow and firm, and Eames tries to find the rhythm, but he can't because his heart is going too fast and his brain reeling in a completely different direction and Arthur keeps moving until Eames catches on, and there's just this moment, where everything is blissful and warm and easy, and Arthur's fingers are light on his chin, but he thinks, maybe, if he tried to move, they would turn hard and keep him where Arthur wanted him.  
  
Arthur pulls away. "You _get_ one kiss for each class, as in I give it to you."  
  
Eames takes a moment to put that together. "So I can kiss you whenever I want?"  
  
Arthur considers a moment, closes his eyes and he thinks it through and Eames should have brought it up, but if he could...if he _could_ , then, then he could...make Arthur upset. More. Mostly. The giddy feel deflates as quickly as expanded and Arthur slumps into his chair. "Only if you really need it, and only in here."  
  
If he could Eames would resolve to not do it at all, but...some days are just too terrible to not take advantage of just a little, tiny bit of what he wants. Eames decides that's something he needs to save for emergencies, when he needs just a hint, a taste of what's out of his reach, but only if he really needs it.  
  
"Goodnight." Eames says, getting up to go.  
  
"Goodnight, Eames." Arthur says, looking up and smiling, not the big one, with the dimples, but the little one that's quieter and sneakier and sort of gets into your brain and throws down stakes. and Eames smiles back, and it's not even forced.  
  
And Eames walks right by the guest room and heads out. To give Arthur his space. His mum isn't in, he doesn't think, but one night to himself isn't all bad. It'll motivate him to find other people, which is what Arthur wants. And Eames wants Arthur, so he just needs to get those other bits out of the way. He has a goal, he does. He has a goal, and it might be a dumb goal, and Arthur might not think it's a healthy one, but it's his goal. Arthur has made the parameters clear, so now all Eames has to do is fulfill them.  
  
Simple.

 

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

### Jan. 20th, 2011 07:10 am (local)

Re: UPDATES WILL BE SPOTTY TODAY.

 

Arthur supposed he was a bit happy that Eames spent more nights away the next few weeks. He still sent his papers for Arthur to look over, but he was taking more nights off. He hadn't mentioned having made any social contacts yet, but he's been out and about more nights then he had been, which Arthur took to be a good sign.  
  
He was in tonight. He'd left for an hour, but come back, like he'd forgotten his cell phone, except then he'd just bee-lined to the couch and lay down and didn't move for awhile. Arthur acknowledged the point that Eames clearly wanted Arthur to ask him what was wrong. If he'd wanted to be left alone, he would have gone to his room. Public brooding meant he wanted his brooding heeded.  
  
Arthur still made him wait, because, ideally, Eames should learn to be able to approach Arthur if he wanted to converse about something, but that, clearly, wasn't going to happen tonight. Also Arthur couldn't deny that, once in awhile, he wished someone would notice when he was having an off day and ask what was wrong with actual sincerity.  
  
So he got up after ten minutes of Eames silently angsting away on the couch, staring blankly at the television, and went over. "It usually helps if you turn that on."  
  
Eames blinks and looks at the television then grabs the remote. "Oh. Sure." He channel surfs for a bit, and it's obvious he isn't really tracking what's on the screen, so Arthur takes the remote and shut the screen off again.  
  
"What happened?" He asks and Eames looks down at the carpet and shrugs and Arthur grabs one of his feet.  
  
"I will tickle you with mercy until you give me the necessary information." Arthur added and Eames kicks automatically, but Arthur sits on his other foot an raises his eyebrows. "I am a ruthless interrogator. I practices for years on my younger brothers."  
  
Eames was halfway to smiling, but at that he freezes and Arthur lets go of his foot. Eames plucks at the seam of the cushion. "What was it like, having brothers?"  
  
Arthur sits back. "Fine, for the most part. Irritating sometimes, but you always had someone around to do something with. On one hand nothing you own is really yours and you don't have any privacy, and everything is sort of disgusting all the time, and no matter what you do someone is going to make fun of you. On the other hand you can always borrow something if you need it, and there are people to talk to, and you all get shafted with the chore list at once, and they're sort of required to be on your side in any sort of altercation. It's hard to describe."  
  
Eames is quiet for a bit longer and Arthur lets him think. Eames sits up after a bit and scratches the back of his neck, looking away.  
  
"I didn't find out until they brought the crib in." Eames said. "They didn't want to tell me until the second trimester. To be _sure_ , they said. Like I was some guy at work, or whatever." Eames dropped his hands and lets them droop between his knees. "The Prick actually asked me to help get the crib in before anyone even told me. Can you fucking-" Eames bites down on the rest of the sentence so hard he jaw creaks.  
  
Arthur has nothing to say to that and so he just sits and Eames turns to look at him and then back at the carpet. "I mean. They could have told me. I know they weren't going to ask whether I wanted a fucking kid brother or not, but they could have fucking told me. Mentioned it, maybe."

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

### Jan. 20th, 2011 10:56 am (local)

Re: LAST ONE. SORRY THERE ARE SO FEW UPDATES TODAY, THERE WAS ONLY BAKING.

 

"So, what are you going to do about it?" Arthur asks, because he honestly has no idea what else to do. Learning he was going to have a little brother had been difficult, but he'd been four and then gotten over it for a bit when he realized he have someone to play Transformers with, and then upset again when the baby had been born and gotten all the presents. Eames is sixteen, which is a hell of an age gap. There are kids at Eames school _having_ babies at sixteen.  
  
Add that to everything else that could be going through his head. That the baby will be a replacement and he'll be shoved out of his home entirely, that he hadn't even been considered enough of a part of the family to be informed when his mother was pregnant.  
  
"It's not like I wouldn't have been excited to, you know." Eames says, quietly, "That's what bothers me. That they didn't _tell_ me, because they'd thought I'd, what. Fucking go mental? Attack her?" He splayed his hands helplessly. "What if she'd had a bloody...if something had gone wrong? Would they have even _told_ me?"  
  
"Is this a moment where you want to vent, want comfort, or want me to offer advice?" Arthur asked and Eames fidgeted on the couch.  
  
"What kind of advice?"  
  
"My advice, which you can choose to take or leave, is that you should be using this as an opportunity to communicate with them. This baby might be something the three of you-yes, Eames, three-can work together to prepare for."  
  
Eames stood and walked to the wall and then began pacing along to the kitchen, hands stuffed down into his pockets. "I just. They didn't _tell_ me. I mean. Fuck. You should tell a bloke he's going to have a brother, even if he hasn't been all that easy to talk to. Leave a note, shoot and email, I _have a mobile_ ." He took it out and gestured with it, then stared down at the screen. "Only thing I use this for is to act an advanced doorbell."  
  
"Maybe if you try and talk to them, they'll reach back."  
  
"Don't you think I have?" Eames turned and not-yelled. "Of course I've bloody tried to talk to them. Every day for months I'd wait for her to come home and ask how her day went, and it was like the whole universe got turned 'round, because she'd just say Fine and go off to her room. It's not like I was sulking in my room, Arthur. I tried. I've _been_ trying. I see the telly and there are all these parents who are harassing their kids and I would fucking..." He drags his hands through his hair and sits at the dining room chair. "She just. She wants to give me my space, she says, and it feels more like she's trying to leave me somewhere so I can just go away."  
  
Arthur doesn't say he that that's not true, that he's sure Eames' mother cares a lot about him, that everything will be fine, because he doesn't do that sort of thing and Eames doesn't want him to.  
  
"I always wanted a brother." Eames finishes. "And I don't care, you know, that the Prick will treat this one like his real son, or whatever, because he'll be my brother too. And little brothers always hero worship their old brothers, right? I mean, for the year or whatever that I'll stay in the house, I guess it won't matter, but I'll visit, you know. Whatever."  
  
He fiddles with his mobile a moment and then tucks it away. "You said something about comfort, yeah?"  
  
Arthur gestures to the couch and Eames sits next to him, close, and his head is tilted up and he so, very clearly, wants a kiss that Arthur can't give him that it hurts. Instead Arthur pretends to not notice and just pulls Eames into his side and grabs the remote. After a moment Eames sort of melts against him and watches the television, relaxed along his side, head on his shoulder as they stare at the television and don't see a thing.

ule Ten (Part Forty Three) [1/20: WHERE THE NEW SHIT STARTS]

I shall now put my ridiculous subject headings here instead, because I still want to talk about Minecraft All The Time.  
  
It just went without saying, in Eames' house, that Eames' mum was having a boy. It was still too early to tell by ultrasound (Eames had done a health course, he knew about babies. The course should have been titled: If You Have Sex Here Are All The STI's You're Going To Get. Also Babies, because, you know, half the girls in the class certainly hadn't _already been pregnant_ once, and half the guy hadn't thought something complete ridiculous about birth control, so, you know.)  
  
However, the Prick's family was, genetically, made of blokes, save for the necessary marrying-in portion. All he had were brothers, and each of those brothers had only had sons, and one of those sons has already started a cock party all his own with a kid. He only had uncles, and male cousins, and this huge long boring story Eames didn't care about and never listened to, no matter how many times the Prick boasted on the phone in his hearing. Eames didn't care, fine, he was having a brother. Okay. No, he got it. You could shut up now.  
  
It also went without saying that Eames was "recruited" to "lend a helping hand" for "the family" which translated more cleanly into Eames doing all the work. At first because the Prick had a bad back and his mum was, you know, _pregnant_ and Eames was, admittedly, good for heavy lifting. And then, somehow, putting together the crib had become Eames job entirely, and from that, so did doing everything else.  
  
"Well I can't paint because, of, you know." She said and then gestured, "And his back, you see, and we're just so busy. You don't mind, do you sweetie? You're going to need to help out more, with a new little bundle of joy on the way."  
  
And Eames had taken the cans of paint and the tarps and painting tape and gone to work, because, well, whatever. It was something to do. And when he got to the actual painting part, he found he kind of liked it. Not the paint fumes and the cold air from the open window bits, but how it was sort of smooth and meditative. He could just erase the russet red of the previous paint with broad sweeps of primer, call the whole this a wash, and just take out the previous feel of the room and replace it. He liked charcoal because it was sort of scratchy and gruff and angry, and good for hi-the room at Arthur's house, but the baby's room needed something easier. Something that lacked specificity and, later, could be complete washed over again.  
  
And when he did start in on the color, the light of the room turned it to a brilliant sort of summer-sky blue. Like. Okay. This was dumb. But. When it was summer, right? Sometime in July when you'd gotten used to the groove of hols, but it wasn't yet time to start worrying about going back yet, and you were a kid, and lying back in the apple orchard down the street, and you were just, staring upwards on one of those viciously sunny and cloudless days, and the whole sky was the sort of blue you could just. Just. Fall into, right? Like the grass and the apple trees weren't going to be enough to hold you back, and you were just going to tumble into it.  
  
Eames covered the wall in perfect-summer-sky-blue and it was sort of like power, maybe? Controlling color, like that, like he could hold a memory in a can, or something.  
  
Maybe he was high off paint fumes.  
  
He was probably high off paint fumes.  
  
When he looks up at the ceiling, it's sort of bland and spotty and depressing. That's no kind of ceiling to up at, and since the baby is a baby and will sort of be staring up at nothing a lot, it needs to be a nothing worth staring at. Eames thinks about it as he cleans up the room. He can't afford enough canvuses to cover the ceiling. and he doesn't know what he'd draw on them anyways, and they;d be dumb, so he just should think about that, so there's no point in throwing paper up there either.

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Jan. 21st, 2011 08:34 am (local)

### Rule Ten (Part Forty Four)

So he steals a bolt of cloth from the theater kids-who are bunch of stuck up tossers, who butcher English accents and never think to even fucking ask him how they're supposed to work, so they can piss off- and he hangs it across the ceiling in grand sort of swatches, like waves, or clouds or whatever, with the Christmas lights from the garage. He spent two hours detangleing the bastards, but he thinks it's worth it. It looks nice, anyways. Good for the kid. Stimulate his brain, or whatever.  
  
The cloth is sort of this. Gauzy. Cloudy foamy white stuff that they were going to use to make angel costumes, or something, but it goes well with the wall, he thinks, looking around.  
  
He doesn't paint the crib, because it's a heavy sort of oaken thing. Built like a tank, and so it's the sort of thing you can proper adventures in. No point messy up a proper adventuring bed. Hopefully he'll be put in charge of buying the blankets and stuff, because otherwise the kid is going to end up with shit that doesn't work with the room.  
  
"What is that?" The Prick asks, staring up at the ceiling like it just gave him the bowfigner and told him to suck it off.  
  
Eames put fucking effort into that, so fuck if he's going to take it down. "One of out every thousand kids chokes to death, or is blinded, on bits of popcorn ceiling in suburban American, especially in mass-produced urban developments like this. You want to take that risk?" Eames lies with complete sincerity.  
  
"It's girly." Prick says, and to Prick, basically everything he doesn't immediately like is girly, so Eames continues. "There's a sealant you can get to hold the stuff up, but it's fucking expensive seeings as this can do it just as well, and fuck if I'm giving any money to people who'd take advantage of justifiably worried parents."  
  
The Prick is a perdictable bastard, and so he grunts, and after a moment where he keeps looking for something to say, Eames diverts him. "We need curtains and shit too, and I was going to go to the mall to hang out."  
  
"You will go to the mall to buy what you need to and leave. Loitering is for delinquents." The Prick says, like he gives a shit,  
but it comes out of his mouth by route, so maybe he heard it on the telly. "Might as well make yourself useful." He takes out his wallet and thumbs some bills. 'I expect receipts, if you don't give me proof of purchase and cost, you'll owe me the full sum."  
  
"Been here awhile, mate, know the drill." Eames counts the money out. More then the man has ever shelled out for Eames, so he tucks it into his own wallet and pulls out his notebook and writes down the sum. "Sign it."  
  
The man does and Eames put that away, because the Prick still hasn't figured out Eames learned to forge his signature when he was twelve, because otherwise damn if he was ever going to go on a field trip with the luck he'd had ever getting a hold of either of his legal guardians. He'd gotten his mum's down when he was nine, bored at home and all her bills scattered across the kitchen table. It'd been something to do.  
  
"I could grab blankets and pillows and stuff while I'm out."  
  
"We'll get those at the baby shower. No sense buying things people are going to give us for free. You just get curtains. Sensible ones."  
  
"Hell if I want that thing crying and keeping me up because a street light go it's goat." Eames looks down at the street. White curtains, to match the ceiling. And yeah they'll stained and ripped and ruined, but you needed something to show you were growing up, that you'd aged. Eames room was full of cracks and scrapes and scratches, stains and spots. You knew someone had lived there, better than the blase, sterile clean of the rest of the house, anyways.  
  
The prick leaves, eventually. No thanks, no job well done, just leaves, so Eames takes a picture of the room and is halfway to sending it to Arthur before he realizes that's dumb and just stuffs his mobile into his pocket and goes to start walking downtown.

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Jan. 21st, 2011 10:53 am (local)

### Rule Ten (Part Forty Five)

MOAR TOMORROW. AS IT WILL BE FRIDAY.  
  
"I'm not even talking about him. You seem to have taking care of him fairly well covered. I'm talking about _you_ . It isn't healthy for _you_ ."  
  
"I know." Arthur said, his headache so prevalent that he could feel it against his fingertips.  
  
"So what are you going to do?" Cynthia asks, and doesn't mention he hasn't touched any of his food, which is what Maxwell would be doing in the same instance. He doesn't need to be looked after, he needs perspective.  
  
Also buying her lunch is as good a thank you as any, as far as he can tell.  
  
"I don't know. Usually I'm good at compartmentalizing, but I don't-" What Arthur _doesn't_ want to say, is that before, back when he still could have, when he was making a mental box for Eames and all of Eames things, he had stopped halfway through because he'd felt unaccountably guilty about shoving Eames into another room to be ignored. Which had been strange, but the _entire premise of their relationship_ was strange, and now it was too late. "I'm trying to help him, but I can't help him the way either of us wants for obvious reasons, so it just." He shuts his mouth because he doesn't like talking when he doesn't know what to say.  
  
"You've given Eames goals to focus on. You need to do the same for yourself. Do you really think _you're_ ready for the kind of relationship that you keep hinting at."  
  
Arthur pauses, fingertips still pressed against his skull, and he looks up. Cynthia is poking around her chicken pesto and at his glance she gives a rather disparagingly look.  
  
"Arthur you aren't nearly in control of yourself. Leaving aside that this is a sixteen year old boy we're talking about-and no, I'm not judging, I think you're dealing with this as best you can- you've had, if I recall correctly, all of one significant relationship that was dynamic, and other than that you've just had scenes and one night stands."  
  
"Correct." He says, and doesn't cringe, because she isn't trying to shame him, and even if she was he'd stand up to it. She sighs over her noddles and knits her fingers under her lips.  
  
"You need to think, really, honestly, _think_ about what would happen when Eames meets your goals and still wants a relationship. You two will need to talk, clearly, but it's a different ball game, being the Dom in a relationship. It's...delicate."  
  
Arthur nods. "I know what you're talking about, but relating to that, I did want you to help me in your area of expertise. I am certain we'll need to experiment and Eames will want to explore...and if he isn't doing it with others, then I'm going to have to branch out."  
  
"I can help you with that. What else?" She spears a creamy white sliver of grilled chicken and eats as Arthur meditates.  
  
"I'll need to think about it."  
  
"I'm here to talk, as is Maxwell, and I'm sure if you came round you could pick up a conversation with anyone about how they balance, or don't balance, or just get along. But you do need to develop some yourself, here, Arthur. And you need to figure out your head, but I think a project might help with that."  
  
"What about you? How do you balance?" Arthur asks.  
  
"I don't." She shrugs. "I haven't had a serious relationship outside of the scene. I don't have time for it right now, and no one ha been able to convince me otherwise. And Maxwell and Lydia aren't, exactly, the best examples either, as their relationship and Maxwell's preferences are nearly divorced from one another out necessity. It's...hard. Finding someone who fits into both your life and your bed."  
  
Arthur huffs in agreement.  
  
"But you do need to take care of yourself in the meantime. You can't just neglect an entire part of your personality until it's convenient. You should come by, even if it's just to sit and talk or watch."  
  
"You just want me to act like a honey trap, don't you? You have this whole story about a man tragically in love with a sub he can't have, and how he's all full of pent up tension ready to be unleashed."  
  
She holds a finger up to her lips and shushes him.  
  
He laughs and pays the bill when the waiter finally remembers that they were there and he should do something about that.

##  [**persephone_il**](http://persephone-il.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Jan. 21st, 2011 06:35 pm (local)

### you are amazing. here, have some porn. (1/2)

 

Masturbation is a tricky business these days. Arthur can't just jerk off in the shower, like he always does, because there's always a sneaky voice in the back of his head going _Guess what Eames did in here just yesterday afternoon_ , and he can't do this thinking about Eames. That's opening the door to so many wrong things.  
  
Arthur draws the line, though, at making himself fall asleep lying on his back. It was something he did, back in his teenage days, somewhat out of twisted unhappiness, mostly for control. He remembers himself, fifteen, staring at the ceiling and thinking _if you seek to master others, you must master first yourself,_ like it was a mantra or meaningful or anything beyond a quote from a stupid fantasy book.  
  
Kept him from having to do too many loads of laundry, though, so there was that.  
  
But the point is, Arthur doesn't do that anymore. He's not ashamed of what he wants, doesn't resent it for all that it's making his life a _bitch_ right now. That's who he is, and choking it down isn't going to help.  
  
So Arthur sorts through it neatly, in daytime when there are people and cars in the street outside, and gets himself off thinking about porn, about subs he fucked. Not Eames, with his beautiful lush mouth –  
  
_Stop it,_ he thinks, and he does. Control was never Arthur's problem, not even when he was fifteen and certainly not now.  
  
Because he is aware of himself, he knows that he's not satisfied with jacking off, not to memories or even the frenzied scenarios he makes up, trying to get himself off or at least edge himself closer if he can't. Arthur knows this. There's just not a lot he can do about it.  
  
Orgasms help him sleep. Pretty universal, but no less fortunate for that.  
  
His bed is cold to get into, crisp chilly sheets against his skin. It's warmer soon enough, though, maybe because there's someone squirming to get closer to him.  
  
Arthur puts an arm out, feeling in the darkness. He knows who this is, though, so he pulls it back in after a moment, recognizing it as an excuse to touch when he shouldn't. But there is Eames against him, fitting himself tight into Arthur's side. Eames can't do this. Neither can Arthur. This isn't allowed  
  
He can't, he shouldn't. But he _wants_ , and all of a sudden he can't remember why he can't _have_ .  
  
Sneaking into his bed like that, without permission. That's not good behavior. Eames should be taught a measure of respect. Arthur twists his arm behind his back.  
  
"Hey – " Eames' voice is sharp, but he stays put. Stays where he's put, like a good boy should.  
  
"It shouldn't hurt," Arthur says, matter of fact, gripping just a little tighter. "Not unless you try to escape."  
  
Eames is eying him, like he's considering it, as if the last weeks where he all but begged Arthur for this suddenly vanished and _now_ he wants out. Then Eames exhales and goes limp in Arthur's arms.  
  
Arthur knows he's smiling, knows it's the smile with teeth in. "Be good," he tells Eames, setting his teeth on the back of Eames' neck. Eames gasps, and Arthur is torn between ordering him to keep silent and not. On one hand, he wants to _hear_ Eames, see if he can make Eames shout or sob, but on the other – wouldn't it be gorgeous to force Eames to reign himself in?  
  
There's something about that kind of control that Arthur loves, and a measure of pride in teaching it to someone else. Something beyond sex or playing, something cool and elegant that Arthur appreciates wholly on a cerebral level.  
  
And then Eames twists in his hold – not enough to hurt himself, just drawing Arthur's attention back – and Arthur has better things to think about now. "Let me hear you," he tells Eames, tightening his hold for punctuation.

 

Eames lets out a _hnng_ and _moves_ , the muscles he's fast developing rippling beneath Arthur's hands. It's not a struggle. If Arthur would call it anything, he might well call it preening.  
  
Eames wants Arthur's full attention. This is exactly what he'll get. But Arthur tells him, "I won't fuck you," to hear him whimper in disappointment more than anything else. "Not tonight," he amends, smiling where Eames can't see him. "That'll wait until you're a good boy who doesn't come into beds where he's not invited."  
  
Eames' huff of breath sounds particularly offended. Arthur chooses to ignore it for now.  
  
"If you want," Arthur tells him, drawn out, vicious in the way his voice can be when he makes it so, "I can jerk you off and send you back to bed." It's gratifying, the way Eames melts at that. Even more so when Eames tenses right back up at the thought of being sent away. "Or. You can take what you deserve for being disobedient, and then you can stay."  
  
Eames makes a soft noise. Arthur patiently waits, unmoving, until Eames says, "That. Yes."  
  
"That, _what_ , Eames." He doesn't need to move Eames' arm. Eames knows Arthur has him.  
  
"Punish me," Eames says, and the breathlessness in his voice does all sorts of interesting things to Arthur's insides.  
  
It's late and Arthur can't think of anything creative, so he settles for digging his fingers into the muscles in Eames' shoulders, right where they meet his neck, _hard_ .  
  
Serves Eames right for forgetting to stretch unless Arthur tells him. Serves him right for coming into Arthur's bed uninvited. Serves him right for being what Arthur wants while Arthur can't have it. Serves him right for taking it so beautifully, for leaning into Arthur's hands even though they're hurting him, for twisting his head to look at Arthur with an expression that's got nothing in it but _yes_ .  
  
"Let me suck you off," Eames says, voice breaking. "Or, with my hand, I don't care. Or fuck me. Anything."  
  
And that, right there, would be the best punishment of all. Not letting Eames touch him, staying in control and on top, unmoved, while Eames gasps himself to pieces under him.  
  
Eames licks his lips. Arthur's half-moved to smack him for being a manipulative little fuck. Instead he moves Eames to lie on his back, kneeling over him. He cradles Eames' head in his hands, not pulling him in, keeping still.  
  
Eames' eyes have gone glassy, unfocused. He licks his lips again but it's a different gesture now, almost involuntary. He blinks, and his eyes flicker up to meet Arthur's. He says, "Please." And, at Arthur's steady gaze, Eames adds, "I'll be good."  
  
He will. Arthur will make sure of it. He pulls Eames in, then, because Arthur may be impervious to his own wants but there's only so much of Eames' wants that he can stand before letting him.  
  
Eames takes him in, eyelids fluttering shut as he closes his lips around Arthur's cock, sucking. He's good at this, better than Arthur would have thought (there's something about that, niggling in the corner of Arthur's brain – something here is _unlikely_ ), and then it's good enough that Arthur can't actually _think_ .  
  
_Wet-dream good,_ Arthur thinks, and then he wakes up, spilling over his sheets like he really is fifteen again.  
  
Perhaps the worst of it, as Arthur gathers his soiled bed linens to launder and replace, is how Arthur resents the dream for ending – not before he came, but before Eames did. Before Arthur had a chance to clean him up and calm him down, give him comfort with everything he has, words and body and all the kisses ever.  
  
If Arthur's going to dream about what he can't have, he should be at least allowed to dream about what he wants most.

##  [**blue_jack**](http://blue-jack.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Jan. 22nd, 2011 06:42 am (local)

### I've never written comment porn to someone else's comment porn before

This fic and your additions are way too inspiring. Although I must apologize 'cause it's the first thing I've written in what feels like months, and I'm rusty.  
  
\----  
  
Eames thinks about what it’s going to be like when Arthur finally touches him. He has any number of fantasies and wet dreams about it, because while Arthur can control the things he does—and Eames wants him to, wants him to more than Arthur seems to understand—Arthur can’t control his thoughts and dreams.  
  
He’s even done some research into the matter. Sort of. But he’s sixteen and has access to the internet, and he _knows_ how kinky some of these wankers can get.  
  
What’s surprising is how ridiculous he finds the whole thing. Considering some of the stuff he’s imagined getting up to with Arthur, he’d have thought watching a guy whip some other guy would be right up his alley.  
  
But all he really thinks is that it looks painful and awkward and kind of funny in parts, although he’s careful to never laugh loud enough to bring his mum or the Prick into his room.  
  
It’s only later, when he’s lying in bed and missing Arthur—he’s trying to be good and not go over so often, but it’s hard, and he misses Arthur terribly—it’s only when the lights are off and there’s only him and the loudness of his own thoughts that he really wonders.  
  
What would it be like to be tied down, to have something in his mouth so he can’t talk? What would it feel like to cry in front of Arthur because of something he’s done to him? And more importantly, what would it be like to have Arthur’s full attention?  
  
That thought makes him shiver, makes him shift on the bed.  
  
He already knows he would do it— _will_ do it, because Arthur’s promised now. As long as Eames meets his conditions, then Arthur will have him, so it’s just a matter of time now, because there’s no way he’s going to fail at this.  
  
Arthur—for all that he’s taken care of Eames, held him when he’s needed him, kissed him even—Arthur has never focused entirely on him. And Eames wants that. So . . . so much.

 

[ **blue_jack** ](http://blue-jack.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Jan. 22nd, 2011 06:44 am (local)

### Actually, now that I think about it, that last title was a lie >_>

 

He wants to do whatever Arthur wants him do. And if Arthur wants to spank him, whip him, hurt him, then that’s what he wants. He wants to have Arthur’s eyes on him, his hands on him, wants to be the one that drives Arthur crazy. And even if Arthur doesn’t want any of that, because he’s never said, and Eames thinks he knows, but he doesn’t _know_ , then Eames can want that, too, and he can shove all those other urges to the side. As long as he has Arthur.  
  
But still, what he fantasizes about is Arthur holding him down. He doesn’t know about the rest of it yet, although he’s not really bothered by anything he saw, just doesn’t have anything to really compare it to. But he can imagine Arthur pinning him to the bed, and that thought has his hand twitching, moving closer to the band of his sweats.  
  
Arthur and all of his rules. Eames wonders what rules he has for fucking. That makes him actually gasp out loud, makes him grind his hand against his cock, although that’s not right somehow, that’s not enough, and he curses and rolls over onto his stomach. He shudders at the pressure against the front of his body, and his fingers dig into the sheet beneath him as he comes less than a minute later, picturing Arthur against his back, whispering into his ear and telling him what to do.

 

##  [**ilovetakahana**](http://ilovetakahana.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Jan. 23rd, 2011 03:42 pm (local)

### Fourth level comment porn! Kick or limbo, you decide.

 

“Eames.”  
  
Slowly he comes back to himself. He’s on his stomach, and Arthur is shifting atop him – Arthur is sitting on his back – and he jerks against the lengths of silk tying his ankles to the bed. He remembers where he’s just been, and more importantly he remembers what he and Arthur are doing.  
  
Eames nearly whimpers in his relief.  
  
And now Arthur is murmuring and he’s bending over, Eames can see his face now, and he’s asking, “Do you need to safeword? Should I slow down?”  
  
Eames shakes his head wildly, no, and Arthur presses a kiss to the top of his head. Eames screws his eyes shut, grits his teeth.  
  
_click_  
  
And Eames shouts, once, something incoherent, and he presses himself into the mattress, every nerve in his body aflame.  
  
_click_  
  
Arthur is laughing, far above him: a deeply amused sound, completely filthy. And he asks Eames: “More?”  
  
He’s trying to say yes, but all that comes out is a pleading groan, long and drawn-out.  
  
And he nearly leaps out of his skin again, he tosses his head wildly. He wants to come.  
  
It’s like Arthur is reading his mind because the next thing he feels is a stretch, something being slowly pulled out of him – _the vibrator,_ a distant corner of his mind supplies. And then Eames is being pulled up onto his knees, Arthur’s hands are gripping his hips, hard enough to bruise, and Arthur is sinking into him, thrust by shallow thrust.  
  
Eames feels a tug on the hair at his neck and he’s looking Arthur right in the eyes when he says, “Scream for me, will you.”  
  
And Eames can feel it, feel everything, as Arthur nearly pulls out – and then slams back in, and Eames _wails_ , he’s begging even though the only word he can form is Arthur’s name, again and again.  
  
///  
  
After, Arthur asks, “Where were you? You had me worried for a while.”  
  
Eames blushes – he hates that he still does, and easily – and he says, warm and rueful, “My seventeenth birthday.”

 

##  [**skellerbvvt**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Jan. 22nd, 2011 11:13 am (local)

### Rule Ten (Part Forty Six)

 

The good news is that I finished the curtain wall for my island fortress, the bad news is that I totally just played Minecraft for a solid five hours on accident.  
  
"Hey, hey, Eames." The girl from his class says as he walks in, and he's pretty sure he's said his name all of once, right at the first day, and by the time he's decided that either the girl is far too good at names, or or he's actually asleep, she's in front of him.  
  
"Uh, hey."  
  
"Ariadne." She says and waves it off, "It's fine, I remembered your name because it's the same as a famous architect."  
  
"Ah." He says, then thinks about that a moment. "That makes even less sense."  
  
"I'm studying architecture." She says, "hence the drawing course. I mean, drawing buildings involves a lot more straightedges and measurements, but it's good to have a strong grasp of perspective and lines and at how angles draw the eye if you're going to make beautiful buildings."  
  
"I guess." He offers, not sure why she ran over, until she's untying her neckerchief and pulling down her shirt in the back. "I wanted to show off, and I figured you might appreciate it. It's not done yet."  
  
It looks sort of like a web, only if the web decided it wanted to maybe also be a butterfly, right there at the bottom. At the moment it's just an careful interlacing of carefully black arcs and spokes, like a wheel, maybe. "What is it?"  
  
"It's the south rose window from the Notre Dame cathedral. It's not going to be entirely accurate, since it's small and you can't get the entire old testament to scale, but it should match the street view."  
  
"Oh." Eames says and nods, "Good work. Who'd you go to?"  
  
"Place down on 5th." She tucks her neckerchief back on, "How about you?"  
  
Eames shrugs, "Got them done when we were in DC for a few months. No tattoo regulations there, otherwise they can get you for child abuse.'  
  
"How old were you?"  
  
"Sixteen, same as now. Turning seventeen tomorrow." And Eames was trying not to think about it. If he didn't think about it then he wouldn't have any expectations. Not from his mum, she was bad with dates-forgot her own birthday most years. When he was younger she'd make an effort, but it usually be a week or two off from the actual date. Just a pair of cupcakes and a little bit of something shiny and new-a toy car, a box of crayons, a new shirt. Eventually they just sort of petered off until a month went by without her saying anything, so he'd just gotten himself a Walkman and called it a year. She was a busy woman, his mum. And with the baby and whatever.  
  
But Arthur knew. Arthur knew when his birthday was. He had it in his moleskin. But as long as Eames didn't expect anything then he wouldn't get disappointed. He was going to Arthur's house despite anything else. That was his gift to himself. He was spending the Friday at Arthur's house-fuck school-and Arthur might have words about that, but it was his birthday. Hell if he was going to school for it.  
  
"Oh. I thought you were older." She didn't look upset about it, exactly, or skeeved out, like some people did. Like they realized they were talking to a teenager and that meant they were going to die of hormones. Like it was catching, or whatever. She just sort of look honestly surprised, which was nice. They staked out their easels and Eames got a pile of paper for the both of them, since he was closer, and she took have and handed over a few sticks of charcoal from the communal box.  
  
"It's the sense of world-weariness I carry around me. And the accent. You have a British accent around here and suddenly you're thirty. Don't worry about it."  
  
"So, any birthday plans?"  
  
Eames shrugs. "Hanging out with friends. Family is probably planning something or other. Mum makes cinnamon rolls on special occasions-not homemade or anything, just the ones from the can, but it's a thing we do. Have cake at whatever in the afternoon, and then I'm off for the rest of the night, don't know what my mates have planned, but it's probably rude. Fuck if any of those cheap fuckers give me any presents that isn't liquor, though. And they'll drink most of it too."  
  
"Sounds like fun."  
  
Eames bends so he doesn't have to fake a smile. "Works out alright for me. How about you, any fun weekend plans?"  
  
"Boring. It's a study weekend."

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Jan. 22nd, 2011 12:04 pm (local)

### Rule Ten (Part Forty Seven)

MOAR TOMORROW. UNLESS MINECRAFT DOES ITS THING.

They're drawing only vertical lines today, and Eames is sort of half-heartedly slashing the lines down and doesn't really listen when the instructor comes by with comments.  
  
Maybe they could kiss longer this time. Nothing more than that-Arthur drew his lines and Eames won't cross them, he _won't_ , but he's going to be greedy tomorrow, just for tomorrow, and maybe they can kiss a bit longer. Fuck. This is. Fuck, but that's what he _wants_ and. You know. Whatever. It would be his birthday, and he thinks he should have at least one birthday where he gets what he actually wants.  
  
Especially since he suspects it'll be a year, at minimum, before Arthur stops finding reasons. It's not that he doesn't think the reasons Arthur has are legitimate, it's just...it's stupid. In the UK they could be having sex by now, maybe. Eames would still have his mates, and he'd be legal and maybe Arthur would be just that bit more lonely, that smidgeon less balanced that meant they were on equaler footing. Eames on his home territory, and Arthur needing to find his space, or whatever.  
  
If they were back home, Eames thinks, he would have Arthur by now, and they could be curled up in his bed right now and-  
  
Charcoal. Hard. Scratchy. Lines. Vertical lines. Hard, thick vertical lines. None of this was helping. None of this was helping at all. Drawing. His mural. He needed to think of what the hell that was, because it was on Arthur's wall and Arthur expected it to turn into something, and Eames had no idea. He really didn't. The shapes felt familiar to him, but they weren't. Working together. Like he'd dug into his brain and grabbed some memories and snipped them to pieces before putting them on the wall, and now none of it made sense.  
  
Okay, sure. Say you're trying to draw a feeling. But feelings don't have shapes. If you could dig your fingers into a feeling, then they wouldn't be so stupid and difficult to deal with. You could just drag anger out by it's scruff and fucking boot it to the curb. It wouldn't just be in you, expansive and shapeless and too fidgety and on edge and impossible to deal with, because it felt like you should _do_ something with it. So now all he had were sort of sweeping shapes and sharp curves and lines.  
  
He could always paint over it if it didn't wash off properly. Arthur still remembered the exact shade of paint, probably.  
  
Eames wondered what class he'd take after this one, when this didn't go and start igniting his imagination or whatever Arthur was expecting. Cooking? Ballroom dance? Pumpkin carving? He'd go and do everything on the community college brochure if he had to, it didn't matter to him.  
  
If nothing else, he could horde the kiss from today and have it tomorrow. That'd be something, yeah?  
  
But what if Arthur had a plan? What if he had this whole big thing set up-not, like, sex or nothing- but a night for just the two of them. What if it was like how birthdays were supposed to go, with cakes and presents and singing and stupid as fuck hats. Jesus. What if he had nothing, thinking Eames didn't want it to be a big deal. And he didn't. He didn't expect anything. It wasn't like Arthur knew what Eames birthdays were like.  
  
He probably thought Eames would be at home, suffering through an embarrassing celebration of some kind, because Arthur just couldn't seem to get that, yeah, okay, sure. Eames mum and the Prick weren't abusive bastard. He wasn't living with the Dursleys or whatever, but Arthur would be able to get it if they were bad like that. He didn't seem to get that they just... installed Eames in a bedroom, put him on their taxes, and forgot about him. Like, you have to have someone's attention for them to beat you, or whatever, and that just never happened.  
  
Arthur would _get it_ if they were bad, like that, but right now he just thought they were having communication difficulties or something. Like it could be fixed with one big group hug, if he just tried hard enough. And Eames didn't try to explain, because hey, why make a bother, right? They forgot his birthday, big, fucking deal, Eames. There were people worse off. Stiff upper lip and all that good stuff. He'd be out soon enough.

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Jan. 23rd, 2011 09:14 am (local)

### Rule Ten (Part Forty Eight)

My day was all sleep and Minecraft and it was delicious. You will grow to resent Minecraft in the coming weeks. Yes you will.

Eames heads out when he’s supposed to, grabs a slice of toast for fake breakfast, and then grabs the two bus instead of the six, and heads over to Arthur’s house. Arthur is usually out of the house around the time Eames goes to school, whenever Eames stays over. So by the time Eames gets there, Arthur should be gone already, off to work or whatever, and Eames can just bum around the house for a few hours. That’s his gift to himself right there, nine hours of school—what with getting there and getting back—he could just stay around Arthur’s house, playing GameCube, or PS3, or on the computer, maybe, eating whatever out of the fridge and otherwise just having a lazy sort of day.  
  
Even if nothing else happens, that seems for the best, no expectations of him or anyone else, just lie about, do a workout later, and when Arthur came home it wouldn’t matter if he had any plans or not, Eames wouldn’t be all worked up from a day in class and thinking about it. Arthur could home, they could watch a movie and Eames could just have the night here. Maybe he’s work on his drawing today. Whatever. The day seemed open, like he could do anything and everything, it’s all under his fingers and he can lie about all day, or he can do nothing, or everything. He could leave and come back. He had seventy four dollars in his wallet, small bills, mostly, from Prick and from other assorted pricks at school, he’ll get lunch somewhere, eat it while walking down the street, maybe buy himself something cool.  
  
Maybe he’d get drunk, maybe he’d lie down on Arthur’s bed and just, stuff his face into the pillows and lie there for an hour or two.  
  
He peers about a bit first, makes sure all the light are off, before sliding the key into the lock, opening the door which is too well tended to creak—Everything Arthur owns is cared for, it’s what he does, makes sure things work. He always polishes his shoes, Eames has seen him, takes them all out once a month lining them out on paper, his shoe shining kit in a wooden box he keeps somewhere in his room, cleaning them all before applying the polish and letting it sit, brushing off the excess and then rubbing them each to a shine. Eames does have any dress shoes, himself, just a pair of trainers he’s had for a few months—ever since his feet last grew—but he thinks if he did he’d shine his shoes like that, maybe. Like they were the most precious thing he owned. Or, well, he wishes, maybe, that Arthur would approach him like that.  
  
But Arthur does that for all his things, doesn’t he? What he doesn’t have sent out for dry cleaning he washes, and dries and irons like they’re the only thing worth his attention, he thinks. That’s what he does, he has loads of nice things, and he takes care of all of them. His house and his garden and his clothes, and whatever. That’s all he does, Arthur. Takes care of things.  
  
The house is empty, empty and quiet, and Eames locks the door behind himself and doesn’t turn the lights on, just stands in the entry way and looks around, looks at Arthur’s coats and his scarves, the sturdy rain boots next to the umbrella stand, not a splatter of mud on them, none of the coats have so much as a loose thread.  
  
Eames takes off his shoes, puts them on the rubber mat next to Arthur’s boots. His shoes are muddy, worn down and floppy on the edges, the soles worn down. Eames just looks at those a moment, Arthur’s boots compared to Eames’ shoes. It’s not that Eames doesn’t take care of his shit, it’s just that he’s only got the one pair of shoes, and no choice but to wear them around all the time.  
  
Eames wonders if that’s what Arthur thinks of him, like his shoes. Like, maybe, if he could keep them all clean he wouldn’t just be another teenager with muddy shoes. Fuck, he’s never even thought of that before. Arthur takes care of all his shit and what does Eames have? Muddy, fucking shoes and jeans with strings at the end from walking so much, and he keeps all his nice clothing here, doesn’t he? The stuff Arthur has made him get, and he takes care of that alright. Irons the shirts and hangs them up and whatever. It’s just the other stuff he doesn’t care for.

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Jan. 23rd, 2011 09:30 am (local)

### Rule Ten (Part Forty Nine)

I have given up on this fic being a reasonable number of comments. Given up entirely.  
  
Eames turns away and goes to the living room, everything quiet and undisturbed. Like. Snow. Or something. Everything put where Arthur had last wanted it, and it’s like he’s a…something. Archeologist or something, finding a new culture or something…of. No. Not like that. Fuck. Just. It’s not like he’s an intruder or anything. Arthur gave him a fucking, key, which means he wants Eames here. Right? Of course he does. Wants Eames here as much as he wants his shoes or anything else. Said so himself.  
  
God, he’s not going to spend his entire birthday sitting around here like a wanker, just waiting around for Arthur to get back. He’s going to have a good day, it’s going to be brilliant, and he’s not going to pine away or nothing. He’s going to have a good day of it , just watch him. He always makes the best of things. He flicks the lights on and flops onto the couch, looking around. A whole nine hours to himself. All to himself.  
  
He goes and turns on the telly and the GameCube, then goes and gets a bag of crisps, relishes the squealing rip of opening a new bag and then presses into the cushions putting his feet up on the table and grabbing the purple controller. It’s going to be a perfect day, that’s what it’s going to be. He’s going to have the perfect day, just to himself, regardless of any one else. A man should depend on himself first, right? Of course he should. That’s what he was going to do, and that’s what was going to happen.  
  
Of course that meant he fell asleep within the first hour, lulled by the quiet of the house, and boredom at searching through the mansion looking for fucking Mario. Even when Luigi got his own game it was about fucking Mario. Poor bastard. Always playing backup, and when he finally gets his own game it’s just on the GameCube and it’s still about Mario. And of course all of Mario’s games are about a woman who just won’t stop getting herself kidnapped. She could if she wanted to, she could fly and do powerballs and shit. He’s played Smash Bros. He knew what was up.  
  
When he wakes up it’s because Arthur has his hands on his shoulders and Eames sort of jerks awake. He knows he hasn’t been asleep long enough for Arthur to be home properly. Eames blinks and Arthur leans down next to him and Eames is still sort of groggy and the game is paused. He looks at the clock on the menu. Lunchtime, Arthur just came home for lunch.  
  
“You’re supposed to be in school.” Arthur says, quiet and low and in that voice that he has. The one that sort of slips out of him sometimes, that slides over Eames body and settles down deep in his gut, like something he can _feel_ and wrap around himself, and Eames doesn’t know if Arthur does it on purpose, or if it’s just one of those things, but he’d pack his kit and move in.  
  
Eames shivers and Arthur squeezes his shoulders. “If you’re tired you should sleep in your room, you'll get a crick in your neck” Arthur air shudders right past Eames ear, and he has to sit there a moment and just...soak it in. But he needs to say something, or Arthur will let go. But he's right there, and Eames has woken up to a world where Arthur is home and behind him, and the stupid fucking couch back has decided to ruin everything, so Eames can only feel Arthur's hands through his shirt and Arthur's breath skittering across his cheek like a dropped bottle cap.  
  
“What, not going to make me go to school?” Eames asks, and Arthur doesn’t let go right away, hands still there and warm and heavy, thumbs right next his shirt collar.  
  
“Not my job to make you go to school.” Arthur says, lifting off and Eames turns around and watches him. There’re shopping bags on the table and Eames leaps over the back to investigate.  
  
“What you have here.”  
  
Arthur grabs him by the shoulders and steers him to the guest room. “You were supposed either be at school or up to no good so I could prepare. Since you are here, you need to entertain yourself elsewhere. So, work on your drawing.”

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Jan. 23rd, 2011 10:06 am (local)

### Rule Ten (Part Fifty)

Today is about being happy. Today they will be happy and it will be a happy day and there will be only happiness.  
  
“Wait, you got me stuff?” Eames tries to see what's in the bags by sheer force of will. There's three of them, the big brown paper kind, so it's not just, like, a cake. Which would be awesome. Arthur probably knows the place to get the best cake, it's probably one of those where the frosting doesn't taste like sugar smeared plastic, and the cake doesn't feel like you're only eating it because you have to.  
  
“In, go. I’m working.” Arthur pushes him into the guest room, shuffles him in and points to the wall, "I want to know what that is."  
  
"It's isn't anything yet." Eames shrugs and then fake tries to get around Arthur. "Come on, I want to see."  
  
"No. It's going to be a surprise, and you'll stay here." Arthur grips him by the shoulders and pushes him down on the bed, which distracts Eames entirely and completely from trying to find out what's in the bags and shoves him directly into a moment where Arthur is _bodily pushing him down onto a bed_ .  
  
. “Don’t peek.” Arthur says, moving away and Eames lets him, because he's still sort of glued to the bed, because that's where Arthur put him. Arthur closes the door and Eames listens to Arthur go down the hall, still sitting, still just sitting, because he's like those boots, right? This is where Arthur put him, and if he stays where Arthur put him, Arthur will take care of him. Arthur takes care of all his things. Eames smiles to himself, not even caring that it's sort of pathetic, because he just sort of feels wonderful. Like. Fuck. High, maybe, but grounded? Like...he's a kite, or something, where he's all up in the air, but he can still feel the ground.  
  
No, like...like a tower. Yeah. Like, he's built his way to the clouds, brick by brick, and he's still deep in the ground, and he's not all filled in yet, like one of Ariadne's drawins, he's just. He's expansive and he's free and Arthur is in the other room making him a birthday worth having, probably.  
  
Eames stretches out on the bed, stuffs his face into the pillow melts into the mattress, not really planning on sleeping, just too full of pleasure to bother moving anywhere or doing anything, in case something knocks it out of his skin and leaves him empty. He'll just lie here and, like, fucking. Marinate in it, or whatever. Soak it up like he's trying for a tan, but in his brain or something.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Rule 10 is a weird story.
> 
> It started off as a comment fic* on Cherrybina journal and then, instead of leaving and finishing it, it stayed a comment fic, but on my LJ because it got stupid long. But the important thing is that it stayed a comment fic this *entire time*. I'd post sections, and let people know via Twitter with the word BAM in a tweet and people would read, and comment and talk to each other and make artwork and side fics and all of that is still fossilized at skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org it was this weird experiment in a one story comment meme and I don't know if it happened before or again, or why it happened with me, but it did.
> 
> I can't communicate effectively what that was like other than it remains both the best and worst period of my life. Other people might be able to speak to it better than I can. My LJ is gone now, due to reasons. 
> 
> *If you were not a part of LJ culture, there used to be these things called comment threads, and during The Time Of LiveJournal, we used them to make friends, and talk about things and create fic memes. Comments fics were generally more lax than Actual Fics as they were written comment by comment, on the fly and unBETA'd. So understand that, generally, I updated about 1-3 comments at per day (except when I got sick, or "sick", or lost in Minecraft) over the period of several months. Nothing was BETA'd ever. It's...a thing that exists. It is longer than anything has a right to be, and there is more of it. Probably. I don't know if this includes the codas. There are codas.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Only split into 2 parts because it was too long for one. Still not looked at, edited or changed in any way to my knowledge. You can still read the imported original at Dreamwidth under the same user name. http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Jan. 23rd, 2011 11:34 am (local)

### Rule Ten (Part Fifty One)

 

Arthur's mom wasn't the kind of person to throw birthday parties. She was the kind of person who said that someone's birthday should be your own sort of love letter to them. Not just saying "oh hey, you're alive another year", but something more towards the direction of trying to capture why, exactly, them having lived another year meant so much.  
  
What you did was make them a love story with your own two hands. And his mom had always sort of succeeded at that by somehow cutting through the crowd and making that day about you, specifically you, just, for one day, the entire day was  _yours_ , because you'd earned it.   
  
So Arthur had taken the day off work, not because he'd known Eames would equally take the day off school (though he wouldn't have bet against it), and not because it knew that, once that skip day was had, he'd come over to Arthur's house (though, again, never going to bet against that either), but because he didn't want work to be on his mind when he and Eames did meet up-because they would, at some point during the day. That was just taken for granted. He wasn't working today, he wasn't bringing any work home, nothing. His cell phone was turned off, and his laptop was away in his room. Today was going to be Eames' day.  
  
And he wasn't going to think about how he would  _like_ to make today, if he could, if  _they_ could, because that wasn't good for anyone. Today was going to be what it was and he was going to make it the best it could be, even if he couldn't give Eames what he wanted the most.  
  
But, Arthur didn't quite know how to do it like his mom had, but he figured no one had ever thrown Eames a birthday party with streamers and balloons and the whole nine yards, so Arthur takes out his five different colors of streamers and begins draping them around the living room and kitchen in spiral-noodle arcs, because birthdays should be colorful, or, well, Eames' should be.   
  
When Eames comes back out he wants this room dripping with streamers, and bursting with balloons, and he doesn't care if it's just the two of them, he's going to make a spectacle of his orderly dining room, complete with table confetti and the loudest, most ridiculous tablecloth he's ever seen, because this isn't about his sense of design. He's got the little cone hats. He's committed to this. This birthday is going to get  _done_ .  
  
He wants Eames to take the room in all at once, just walk in and see it all, not sit there and watch it coming together. Otherwise if Eames wants to sit and watch Arthur make dinner, later, then so be it. First, of course, comes lunch from  _Golden Quince_ , and either playing video games until Arthur has to make dinner, or going for a walk, or watching a movie (Arthur bought six, and he'd be perfectly fine marathoning them, if that's what Eames wants to do) but the room Eames has to wait until Arthur puts it all together.  
  
He's being awfully quiet in there. Maybe he did return to his nap. He had fallen asleep right in the middle of  _Luigi's Mansion_ , still sitting up, face pressed into the cushy back of the couch, hands limp around the controller. And Arthur has no idea what Eames sleep schedule is like when he's not at Arthur's house, but if he needs the sleep, then he can have it.   
  
Seventeen. One year closer to actually legal, but even if Eames was turning eighteen tonight, Arthur would stick to his rules. If Eames was twenty, he'd still need friends, still need a drive, but fuck. He's going to be magnificent someday, Arthur can see it, provided Eames doesn't just decide to burn out and cut his losses with a series of terrible jobs. Who knows what he's going to be doing for the next three years? He might not even be in town a year from now. And that'd be good. It's be good for him. Not to college, since no amount of convincing on Arthur's part had made Eames stop pulling at a face at the merest suggestion of more school, which is a shame since Eames  _is_ smart, and he should be somewhere that appreciates it. But he can always apply later, if he wants to. Take a gap year.  
  
Arthur firms his jaw. Today is about today. That's the important part. Today he is going to make himself a love story out of streamers and cake, and nothing is going to stop him.

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Jan. 23rd, 2011 01:03 pm (local)

### Rule Ten (Part Fifty Two)

 

Arthur finishes and goes to Eames room, knocking on the door, and when that doesn't elicit a response, opens the door to see if Eames is napping or drawing or what.   
  
Eames is in the bed, above the sheets, on his back and staring up at the ceiling, a sort of blissed out lazy expression on his face, and just looking like he and the bed were manufactured together, he's melted into it so completely. Arthur walks over, suddenly concerned that Eames has decided the ideal way to spend his birthday is  _out of his head_ and thus doing lawnwork all of Saturday.  
  
But there's no evidence of drug use that Arthur can see and when he gets closer Eames smiles at him lazily and holds his hands up and Arthur sits on the edge of the bed as Eames wraps him in a hug.  
  
"Eames, what are you on?" Arthur asks, because it could be pills, he supposes. Eames will probably tell him, if he asks. He's never really been shy about it before, for a bit he'd tried to push Arthur into reacting, somehow, and Arthur hadn't. Just made Eames shovel the driveway and the sidewalk a block in either direction the next morning.  
  
Eames blinks up at him. "Didn't take anything." His arms go limp and he rests his head into Arthur's leg and sighs, blinking lazily. "Just feel good, I guess."  
  
Arthur puts a hand on the back of Eames neck and Eames sighs with such a sense of peace and acceptance, that the suspicions creeping up along Arthur's spinal column sinks down deep into his brain.   
  
"Eames, look at me." He says and Eames does, rolling over into an awkward curl and stares up at him, eyes blows and still smiling and Arthur still thinks it's probably drugs, because what he  _suspects_ it is just doesn't make any kind of sense.  
  
"What are you thinking about?" Arthur asks and Eames is still staring at him, but not really seeing, and Eames is reaching up with his hand, so Arthur grabs it and holds on, which seems to please Eames in some fundamental way and he relaxes just that extra little bit until he might as well be liquid.  
  
"Boots." Eames says. "Thinking about your boots. By the door. They're just. Clean. And you put them there. And you put me here." Eames gestures sort of grandly around and smiles to himself, practically nuzzling into Arthur's thigh. "And then I just sort of stopped thinking."  
  
"But you didn't take anything?" Arthur clarifies and Eames shakes his head and Arthur bends until his forehead is against Eames' and that sort of hurts his side, but he doesn't care, because he didn't mean to  _do_ this. He shouldn't have done this, this shouldn't have happened at all. He'd just wanted to give Eames a surprise not...  
  
But if Arthur is on edge and falling into headspace even when he  _knows_ what it is, and whats going on and knows what it feels like, how much more likely is it for Eames to do the same with absolutely no knowledge of what it should be like, or what's happening, or what it means. Arthur doesn't know what subspace is like-seen it only from the outside, and this is ringing a few bells. But most of the people he's know have said that it takes  _work_ to get there, if they get there at all, if it's even a proper thing and not just an endorphin high and enjoying the roleplay.  
  
But it seems the most likely thing, and he doesn't want to upset anything and have the rest of Eames day be one long drop, so he scrunches them around so he can rest against the headboard-Eames keeping his grip on Arthur's hand-before settling his head back down and keeping their knit fingers in front of his face.  
  
"So my boots are clean, and I put you here."  
  
Eames hums in agreement.  
  
"Not sure I'm following your train of logic. My boots are always clean-except when I'm using them-that doesn't usually make you so happy."  
  
"There where you put them. You put me here. Your boots are clean." Eames mumbles. "It's just good, is all? It's good you have clean boots."  
  
"Eames, don't worry about it just yet, but when you feel a bit more cognizant, let me know." Arthur says, because he still doesn't see how his boots being clean is translating itself in Eames head, but he knows that him frog marching Eames here and pushing him down on his bed--and now that he thinks about it, that should have made itself more obvious awhile ago—was the spark. 

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Jan. 23rd, 2011 01:36 pm (local)

### Rule Ten (Part Fifty Three)

MOAR TOMORROW  
  
He is usually more careful than this, because he...well, it just wasn't nice to tease or toe the line. But he'd been wrapped up in making the day about Eames, that he hadn't been thinking clearly.  
  
Eames just hums in agreement and pressed his body more firmly along Arthur's legs and Arthur just sits there and lets Eames take what he needs to, because he doesn’t know what will pull Eames out of it, and he’s not sure if he would, just yet, if he could. It’s just…nice, to see him like this, not hunched in on himself, overthinking things. Right now he’s just accepting the world for what it is.  
  
And maybe he’s also taking advantage, a little, because he loves this part. The part where all the tensions from before settle away and everything is fine, for a bit.   
  
In a normal situation his entire focus would still be on his partner, and his partner would be staring at him like…everything…and they could let the rest of the world in at their own speed. Arthur doesn’t know what to do now that he’s not in his headspace (and he could be. He could be  _so easily_ if he let himself, but he won’t.) but Eames seems happy with what they're doing. Which is good because Arthur's not willing to do anything else, right now, so he’s happy what he can do seems to be enough.  
  
But on the other hand, he doesn’t think it’s going to help him bring Eames out of it, and maybe he can just let Eames sleep it off, but he’ll probably be mad if he’s one of those people who doesn’t really  _remember_ what was going on around them when they slip away, and he sort of selfishly  _wants_ Eames to remember his birthday-unless he hates it, in which case no. He might get embarrassed about it and uncomfortable. Or get angry that Arthur was treating him like a kid.   
  
“Eames?” Arthur asks, quiet and Eames hasn’t stopped looking at him, so he just hums a little in question and Arthur rubs his thumb along Eames fingers, absently, but Eames just  _shivers_ and Arthur is well out of his depth or comfort range, right now, but Eames needs him, so he’s going to see it through. “What do you want out of your birthday?”  
  
Eames lowers his eyes to look at their hands. “This is good. We could do this. You take care of your things.” He sighs again. “Can we stay here for awhile?”  
  
“Okay.” Arthur says, “however long you need, I’ll be right here.”  
  
“I know. You take care of your things.” Eames repeats and just sort of drops off, asleep, maybe, or meditative, it’s impossible to tell, but Arthur sits and keeps his hold and tries not to feel guilty, because there was no way to know. He’ll be more careful in the future, of course he will, and Eames—when he gets up the courage—can ask about it, Arthur will tell him to, later, but he’d decided that today would be about Eames, and if Eames wants to float for awhile, Arthur isn’t go the begrudge him in the slightest.  
  
_You take care of your things._ That was Eames sticking point. Arthur’s boots were clean and put in their place, because Arthur took care of his things. He’d put Eames in his place and…  
  
Eames wanted to be one of Arthur’s things. Arthur took care of his things. Eames had dropped off with very little effort on Arthur’s par, because Eames was so wrapped up in the knowledge that Arthur took care of what was his, and, for a moment, Eames had felt like he  _was_ Arthur’s. That was all it took for him, just…knowing he’d be taken care of.  
  
Arthur swallowed and let his head go back against the wall. Today was about Eames. Not about his own guilt, and greedy, vicious desire to tip Eames over daily, to be required to hold him and take care of him just by the implication that he belonged to Arthur, and fuck—would he do later? Would he still do that when Arthur could do more about it? Could throw his arm around him in public and drag him away from a conversation with strangers just to kiss him. Would he look like Maxwell did, when Lydia jokingly grabbed him around the collar and dragged him away someplace—like that was the best thing he could ever hope for and everything else was secondary?  
  
“You come back to me when you’re ready. I’ll wait here.” Arthur says, because he can’t say any of the things he wants to, so he’ll say what he can, and that’s good enough, for now.

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Jan. 24th, 2011 06:35 am (local)

### Rule Ten (Part Fifty Four)

I finally found diamonds so I can mine obsidian and make a gate to Hell, and more importantly, finish my Clue mansion ballroom.  
  
It takes Eames nearly fifty minutes to come back to Arthur, and Arthur sits there the entire time, re-reading  _Good Omens_ for the sixth time, careful to not lose Eames’ place. Eames keeps his head on Arthur’s lap that entire time and his hand wrapped tightly around Arthur’s—not once loosening his grip—and Arthur doesn’t much mind. Eames stretches, slow, like he’s savoring each movement, and then blinks a few times.   
  
“Back with me?” Arthur asks, and he’s not letting go of Eames hand before he has to, because people hold hands. People hold hands all the time. There’s no good reason why they can’t hold hands. Eames doesn’t seem aware that they are, currently, holding hands, and pulling away would only serve to possibly embarrass him.  
  
Eames frowns. “Didn’t go anywhere.”  
  
“Didn’t you now.” Arthur closes the book and places it carefully back on the bedside table. “So do you normally go on about how clean my boots are?”  
  
Eames blinks and then seems to notice he’s basically shoved his face right into Arthur’s lap, and how their legs are all tangled up together, and how he’s basically holding Arthur’s hand prisoner, and he lets go, shoving away and sitting on the end of the bed all in a rush. “Sorry, I was. I don’t. I was just.”  
  
“It’s fine.” Arthur says. “Can you tell me what it felt like?” Arthur asks, because he just wants to know. Eames is rubbing his head, might have a headache, might just be confused and he shrugs.   
  
“I was just. You sat me on the bed, and when I got here earlier, I’d…I was looking at your wellies and just thinking about. Nothing. Sorry. It’s dumb. I don’t know. I was just…and then I don’t really remember? Like. I know I didn’t take anything, but it was like I was just too happy to keep track of what was going on.” Eames presses his head into his hands. “I don’t. Fuck. I just. My brain just sort of shut off, for a bit, but in a good way. I guess. It was…it was good, I guess.”  
  
“Eames, it’s fine. Eames, come on. Look at me.” Arthur gets up and he takes Eames shoulders and Eames looks up, and he should be that embarrassed over. Fuck. Arthur wishes he could explain, well, he can explain, but only from and outside perspective, and only from his limited experiences. “You felt happy, right?”  
  
“Yes. But I don’t. It was like. Fuck. Like the dreams where you figure out how to fly, and it’s easy, just…easy, but it was also. I don’t know. This is dumb. I don’t know what was.” Eames shoves an unhappy exhales through his teeth and Arthur sighs because he just wants today to be good. He just wants today to be a good day. Just today. That all he wants right now is for today to be a  _good_ day. And he feels…Arthur doesn’t know how he feels right now. He’ll detangle it later, but Eames had been happy and relaxed and peaceful, and Arthur sort of wishes he could stay like that, for a bit longer, or keep some residue of it while still being able to interact with his environment.  
  
“Eames, you remember how you were talking about how, sometimes you wish I had more rules for you, because you like how the rules make you feel?”  
  
“I thought we weren’t talking about that.” Eames says, suspicious and Arthur laughs.   
  
“It’s become relevant again. What just happened to you, that…it’s sort of a meditative state, a bit. You know how yogi’s can achieve inner peace and sort of leave their bodies behind? This is a bit like that, and a bit to do with why you like rules. It’s nothing to worry about. There’s a lot of people who would kill to do what you just did, and you enjoyed it, didn’t you?”  
  
Eames wipes his mouth, drool having collected along the corner, and Arthur becomes re-aware that he still owes Eames a kiss for going to class yesterday. After a moment Eames nods.  
  
“When you call that number I gave you, you can ask about this, and they can help you more then I can. Alright?”  
  
“Yeah. Okay. I just.” Eames swallows and looks back across the bed. “Nevermind. It’s dumb.”  
  
“Tell me anyways.” Arthur says and Eames shakes his head and doesn’t seem to want to go anymore into it, so Arthur decides the best thing to do is distract him. “Come on, my surprise is ready.”

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Jan. 24th, 2011 10:01 am (local)

### Rule Ten (Part Fifty Five)

And now I have 7th Sea so...MORE TOMORROW  
  
Eames stop dead at the sight of the living and dining room. Just, like, he was feeling weird and sort of achy, and sort of like he wanted to cry, which was dumb, because he should cry for no good reason, and especially not because he’d been happy, or whatever. Safe. Feeling. Whatever that entire episode had been (how messed up was he? Seriously. Arthur puts him on a bed and Eames, like,  _loses his shit_ and then he comes round and he’d latched onto Arthur like some sort of whiny toddler and  _fuck_ ), and he comes out and he just stops.  
  
Arthur is standing a bit behind him, so Eames can’t see his expression, but that doesn’t matter, because Eames has  _met_ Arthur, he knows how important it is to Arthur for things to match and go in their proper places, and not have too many colors. He likes a few colors, like, one accent per room, and so his entire house looks just a bit like autumn, maybe, with all it’s browns and rust reds and creamy golds, but this? This is a fucking color palette vomit attack. There’s red and blue and green and yellow and shiny silver and bright pink and ropes and swirls and dips of streamers that are just  _everywhere_ , and balloons on the ceiling and on the floor and the table, what did Arthur do to the  _table_ .  
  
It’s seriously like a Crayola box decided to become a room and  _Arthur_ is the one who put it there and Eames seriously can’t handle it so he just sits down and starts laughing, because what the  _actual fuck_ . The table cloth is a tacky sort of plastic-y vinyl, like you’d get for a kids party, with a balloon pattern, and Arthur is standing there, like he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s done, but at Eames. Just at Eames, not sneering at the rest of the room, on looking pained at how the balloons are all clinging to his legs like bloated latex puppies, he’s looking at Eames and Eames is laughing is arse off, because, Jesus. Just. Here he is, worried sick that Arthur wouldn’t do anything for his birthday, and then Arthur goes and buys his a party store and throws its intestines everywhere and it’s just…it’s hilarious.  
  
“It’s like the birthday party that smashed Japan.” Eames finally gets out and then has to rest his head on the table, because it just. Arthur. Arthur got all the colors and he put them everywhere for Eames’ birthday just fucking because. “Teenage mutant ninja birthday.”  
  
Arthur sits down next to him as Eames looks around and then has to cover his head, because he feels giddy again, and fuck if he knows what his mental state is doing right now, it’s  _everywhere_ , and maybe his laughing fit goes on a bit too long, but there are  _so many balloons_ and a giant banner with  _Happy Birthday!_ emblazoned on it, and he doesn’t even know what to do with this.   
  
“I have a plan for dinner, but if you’d rather go out to eat, we can do that. I have some movies, if you want, or we could play video games, or…” Arthur shrugs. “It’s your birthday, what to do you want to do?”  
  
The idea of going outside sounds terrible, like in the way cutting out his own tongue sounds terrible. They’re going to stay in here all day, so no one can ruin anything. Eames detaches the phone line as Arthur takes out the movies and then shepherds them to the couch. He puts the packages of crisps onto the table and drags Arthur down next to him, because the idea of Arthur being…away, just. It sits wrong in his stomach, like off-Chinese and Arthur isn’t keeping a careful distance between them, for once, and Eames isn’t thinking about how terrible tomorrow is going to be when he has to go back to sitting on the other end of the couch. Today Arthur sits next to him, because Eames drags him down.  
  
Arthur sighs and relaxes back into the couch as the FBI warning screen pops up. Eames leans over to hit the lights and when he relaxes back they’re shoulder to shoulder and Arthur rumbles something like amusement and Eames doesn’t care what the movie is, just that they’re watching it, and from foot to shoulder they're touching and he has a kiss to collect later, and no one is going to bother them today, and Arthur offended all of his own sensibilities for Eames’ behalf.   
  
He can worry about whatever happened earlier, later.

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Jan. 26th, 2011 02:19 am (local)

### Rule Ten (Part Fifty Six)

_The Golden Quince_ was a real bistro that closed down some ten years ago now. I am clearly not over it yet.   
  
Eames slouches when he sits. Not so much at the dinner table, then he tends to sit up a bit, like he’s trying to impress Arthur, but the second you put him on a couch it’s like he’s lost all his bones. Right now his head is level with Arthur’s chest, one foot bracing him on the ground, the other slipping along the wood on the end table. Left to his own devices— Arthur’s observed—Eames will gradually just fall straight off the couch, sitting on the floor until he scoots back up and starts the process over again.   
  
As is, just when Eames is about the fall off the couch he hitches himself back up, shifting around until his head against Arthur’s should and his legs are thrown up over the arm of the couch. Arthur has to shift his arm over Eames chest so it doesn’t fall asleep, and Eames hand has been creeping ever closer to Arthur’s, but not quite getting there. He probably would be back to holding Arthur’s hand, if Eames weren’t the kind to be constantly worried about what point Arthur would refuse him, and simultaneously needing to know how much he could get away with.   
  
He could hold Arthur’s hand, if he wanted to. That was within Arthur’s limits. Which, thus far, seemed to be that Eames could do anything romantic up until people started frowning on fifteen year olds doing it with each other. Cuddling, yes, hand holding, yes, a kiss or two good night provided they didn’t go on too long or too wet, yes. But any more than that and then it was just a matter of degrees. It would be easy to rationalize away a hand under Eames shirt, or a leg between his thighs, a sucking kiss to his neck, hand sliding up while Eames panted, grinding down, and Arthur can’t do that.  
  
So. Hand holding. A kiss goodnight. Lying together on the couch while watching a movie. Not entirely innocent, but there’s a look in Eames eyes, sometimes, a wild eyed, barely hidden desperation, which quiets if Arthur hauls him by the wrist to test the tomato sauce, if Arthur teasingly grabs him back the neck and shoves his face into his homework to try and get him to focus.  
  
Arthur wonders, sometimes, if he’s the only one who ever touches Eames. More the reason for Eames to get out and make some contacts—literarily in this case—because he might just be confusing perfectly natural skin hunger for…any number of things. But he’s not going to think about that today. He has to think about it tomorrow, but not today.  
  
Eames is clearly not engaged with the movie. When he’s engaged, he talks. He mumbles to himself, and counsels the characters, and provided commentary, even when he was trying to be quiet. Eames, right now, was completely silent, ergo, completely unaware of the film which meant he was brooding about something. Arthur considered talking about it, briefly, but whatever it was could wait until tomorrow, so he just moved his hand to hold onto Eames’ since that seemed likely to be what was holding his attention.  
  
Eames sighed and wrapped his fingers around Arthur’s.   
  
“I have no bloody clue what we’re watching.” Eames says after a moment. “And it’s kind of giving me a headache.”  
  
Arthur shuts it off and Eames get up and pads over to the fridge and opens it up. “Everyone ever tell you that you’re predictable.” He says, gleefully, when he pulls out the bag from  _The Golden Quince_ and pulls out his sandwhich. Eames always gets the bacon club, and Arthur always gets the avocado one, that tastes like the most delicious sort of avocado dip—all melted cheese, and sour cream and mayonnaise, with garlic bread and careful slices of avocado between layers of tomato and even more cheese. It isn’t anywhere near healthy, but, well. If you find a theme in your life, you might as well follow it. Eames flops into one of the chairs, biting into his sandwich and looking around at the balloons and streamers and then back at Arthur. “I got the hats too.” Arthur says. “We’re wearing them for dinner.” “What hats?” “The little cone ones.” “From like…movies? people wear those?” Eames huffed. “When I was a kid I wanted some so I could run around and pretend to be a rhino.”

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Jan. 26th, 2011 03:34 am (local)

### Rule Ten (Part Fifty Seven)

Aaaand now back to Minecraft.  
  


“You can still do that if you want.” Arthur offered and Eames gave him the finger, then appalled at his own Americanism, switched it to two, and then just settled for a dirty look.   
  
“I don’t have to start making dinner until five, so what do you want to do now?” Arthur asks after he’s finished, since Eames more sort of _absorbs_ food into his being instead of going through the somewhat lengthier process of eating. Eames considers this, fiddling with his napkin, and looking down at the eye-blaringingly colorful tablecloth. “Or we could go out to eat. Take a walk. Go for a drive. Eat frozen peas.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“My mom had an activity book of 500 things to do on a rainy day, and activity 337 was to eat frozen peas.”  
  
“Got a bit desperate did they?”  
  
“At least fifty of the activities were how to make different sorts of paper owls.” Arthur says, because the main attraction of that book had been to read how completely ridiculous it was. Arthur didn’t think he or his brothers had done a single activity (they were not activity-book-activity sorts of people. They were wrestling-when-bored sorts of people.)  
  
Eames looks down the hall to Arthur’s room and Arthur sort of has a good idea of what Eames wants, but Eames snaps his looks away and goes back to looking at the table cloth. “I dunno. I just. I mean. Yeah. Okay.”  
  
“That wasn’t actually a sentence.” Arthur says, because it wasn’t and Eames fidgets, before getting up and kicking a balloon so that it pops up and sort of meanders vaguely in the direction he kicked it.   
  
“I just. I mean. I don’t know.” He non-says again and then picks up a bright yellow balloon, rubbing his thumb over the black letters. “It’s weird. Having this much to-do about my birthday, you know? Like. I was sort of expecting, yeah, dinner, sure. But. And before. I don’t know what to even—I just.” His fingers go clawlike against the laytex and he looks up. “Can I draw you?”  
  
“Like you do your French women?” Arthur asks, because he’s not sure where that came from, or what Eames means, or if this is what Eames has been working himself up to, or if he’s distacting himself from the point.  
  
“What?” Eames frowns.  
  
“Nothing. The 90’s. Do I need to be naked?”  
  
Eames’ shoulders go tight and Arthur gives him a moment, cleans up and pretend he doesn’t notice.   
  
“No, not. It’s for class. I mean. The teacher said if we could get a nude model. You know. Awesome. But most people don’t have someone willing to strip for them. But, uh. I’m not good at. Cloth. And she wanted the focus to be on the lines of the. Uh. Body. So.” Eames clears his throat. “Whatever your comfortable with, or whatever.”  
  
“Is that what you want to do now?” Arthur asks.  
  
“Yeah.” Eames says.  
  
“Okay then. I’ll go change into something more comfortable. You set up in your room?”  
  
Eames nods and heads off and Arthur goes to his room and looks at his closet. Minimal clothing so it’s easier to draw, but not so much that it’s…not okay anymore. He puts on his work out clothing, because it’s not like Eames hasn’t seen him in that before and then goes over to Eames room with a knock on the door.  
  
“Yeah, okay.” Eames says, and Arthur goes in. Eames has opened the window and redirected his lamps to be near the desk chair. His closet door is propped open so he has a form of easel. “You can sit. Get comfortable. Just. You know. Relax.”  
  
Arthur sits and settles in and Eames is stripping off his shirt and putting his bag of charcoals on the bedside—which he dragged over—and his India rubber eraser sitting precariously on top of the Ziploc and the sheet of paper taped the door at the corners.  
  
“Do you have an artistic vision I should be fitting myself into?” Arthur asks.  
  
“No. I just sort of take it as I see it.” Eames says distractedly, looking between Arthur and the paper. “I mean. This is going to turn out terrible, but. You know.”  
  
“It’s your birthday. What you want to do is what we’ll do.” Arthur says and tries to find a position he’ll find comfortable for awhile. Eames just nods and then goes over and smoothes his fingers through Arthur’s hair, disrupting the style, before stepping back and smiling.  
  
“Alright, then.”

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Jan. 26th, 2011 10:37 am (local)

### Rule Ten (Part Fifty Eight)

 

He didn’t want to put a mark to paper yet. For one because, well, he wasn’t quite sure where to start. Did he want to do outlines? Did he just want to pick a part of Arthur and start shading. Did he move from the center, outwards. It was going to look rubbish. He couldn’t fucking draw right,. he just doodled and did cartoons and shit. And Arthur was all. There. And not naked, no, that was just too much to hope for. He’d thought about saying it had to be naked,  _thought_ about it. But what if Arthur found out he was lying?  
  
Eames didn’t give a shit if his teachers thought he was lying or not, his mum never noticed and the Prick just assumed Eames was and didn’t give a shit, but  _Arthur_ , yeah? Worse than him finding out, what if he  _didn’t_ , what if Eames lied and got away with it, and kept getting away with it, and Arthur would trust him and Eames would have lied  _ages_ ago and that would be…that would be impossible. Since Arthur wants to trust him, is the only person willing to trust him, and you didn’t. You didn’t fuck that up. Oh he fibbed, sure, misdirected, yeah, but he didn’t just out and out say something was the opposite of what it was just…and he could. With the kissing. He could kiss Arthur and make up some story, and Arthur would feel bad for him, and maybe sort of try and do that thing. Like. Like he was trying to shield Eames from the rain, or whatever. Fuck.  
  
Okay. Just. Draw the desk. Put the desk where it should be, and yeah. Put the world around Arthur first. Then he could deal with Arthur. He was about one and a half charcoal sticks across, so. Okay. This was fine. He could deal with this. He drew desks all the time. Arthur was just sitting in the chair, in his work-out shorts and t-shirt, and it looks a bit like something he might, maybe, sleep in. Like something Eames could climb in with when they went to bed and  _fuck_ , right. Focus.  
  
Arthur just kept sitting there, quietly, not being statue-still, but sort of relaxed into one position, and Eames eyes caught on a fold in his shirt, right over his stomach, and Arthur was slouching, a bit, and he looked. Younger. Like. not Eames’ age. But only a year or two older, like after this they could fuck on the bed in Arthur’s crap dorm room, or his tiny flat, and they could eat pot noodles and not leave the bed for days.  
  
Eames wondered what Arthur was like as a nineteen year old. If he was always this put together, or if he decided to do that later. No, probably, probably he’d been like this, you couldn’t change that much in nine years. Not that much. Like. Got more polished, sure, built up your skills, maybe got dumpy and boring at your job, but inside you were still the same sort of person, right? Well, sure. Eames wasn’t the  _same_ person he’d been when he was eight, no, but that was different.  
  
He realized he’d been sketching the folds of Arthur’s shirt without realizing it, following the carefully gradient shading dipping in his stomach. No placement on Arthur yet, just folds hanging in the air, near the sketchy outlines of the desk. Eames swallowed and then looked back to his paper.  
  
“What were you like?” Eames asks, moving to Arthur’s feet, and he was judging his measurements off the side of the desk, and this was going to be a terrible drawing, but he couldn’t start on Arthur’s face just yet. Not…just yet.  
  
“What was I like when?” Arthur asks right back, and he isn’t wearing any shoes or socks, just his bare feet pressed to the carpet, his long toes buried into the pile, and Arthur’s feet are just… _feet_ , not like…they aren’t just sort of there, at the end of his legs, right? He doesn’t forget about them when he isn’t walking, or whatever, they’re like. Hands. A bit. A bit more like hands, then feet, which  _sounds stupid_ , he knows it does, but it’s just true. Arthur is just. His feet are just. It’s like Arthur is aware of all his bits and pieces in a way that Eames doesn’t think anyone else is, and he doesn’t know how to explain it, or draw it, but it’s just true.

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Jan. 26th, 2011 12:15 pm (local)

### Rule Ten (Part Fifty Nine)

MOAR TOMORROW. PROBABLY.  
  
But he likes drawing them. They’re not like the models in class. Arthur feels more…visual, then the nudes do. Like. Fuck. He’s just. There’s no part of him that Eames can just reduce down to lines and shading and shapes. He can’t forget that any of those shapes belong to Arthur and then it’s just. It’s like all of his sketching  _matters_ or some shit. He doesn’t know. It’s just. It’s different, is all.  
  
“When you were my age.” Eames says, wholly focused on the rise of Arthur’s ankle.  
  
Arthur is quiet a moment, and Eames is distracted from his feet by his shoulder. He’s careful to measure everything out, but he’s certain Arthur is just going to look like Eames hacked him apart and stuck him back together all wrong.  
  
But on the other hand, here is Arthur, sitting here for him, just…he’s watching Eames more then Eames is watching him, and it feels good. Arthur can focus like no one's business.  
  
Arthur rubs his hands together and considers. “People said I was intimidating. I was used to being the eldest brother, and my father’s son, and my mother’s boy, and all these…things…that other people projected onto me, that I didn’t figure out what I wanted from all that until I went away and had time to construct myself. I don’t really know what I was like before that.” Arthur is quiet for a moment, and Eames knows the difference between his  _I’m done talking_ silence and his  _I need to consider this,_ pause, and so he just keeps drawing, shading in the curve of Arthur’s calves, moving to his knees, the knobby bits and he rubs away the charcoal where scars are, tiny and silver.  
  
“Before that I had things I did, people I associated with, clothing I wore, organizations I joined, but they didn’t adhere into an identity until I had to think about why I was doing what I did. It’s…different, when you’re out in the world, and no one has the right to tell anyone what you’re like or who you are. You just have to go out and you are yourself, more. There’s no little brothers or parents or anything to get in your way. And, for me at least, I went out and I was just left with the person I wanted to be, and the person I would hate to be.”  
  
“Yeah?” Eames asks, because he isn’t dumb. He knows what Arthur is trying to say, and it chafes, low in his gut, because Eames knows who he is, for the most part. He just needs people to fucking let him be that person and it’d be fine. He guessed. Maybe. Whatever, even if he was…whatever. Finding himself. He didn’t see why he couldn’t do it around Arthur.  
  
He was smoothing the side of the charcoal in soft sweeps along the curve of Arthur’s neck, running his thumb down one tendon as it stand out in the light. He wipes his hand off along his ribs and Arthur’s attention refocuses like he’s a camera, or something. Eames wipes his other hand off and Arthur stares, like he doesn’t quite mean to, and Eames feels it down to the soles of his feet.  
  
“Yes.” Arthur says eyes snapping up.  
  
“And what are you now, then?” Eames asks. “What are you now, that you weren’t then?” Eames asks, striking harsh along the lines of Arthur’s forearms, a single, tightly controlled line that doesn’t follow the curve or shape, but has some measure of the way that Eames thinks maybe Arthur forearms would feel, or…well, look, if Arthur were to shove Eames against a wall to kiss him, to brace himself on them in quick, thick, outlines.  
  
“Happy.” Arthur says, and Eames pauses and Arthur eyes don’t drop. “When I look in the mirror I always know whose looking back.”  
  
Eames looks away, going back to adding careful, gentle details to the quick sketchy outlines, blending the textures inwards and he knows Arthur is still looking, but he’s trying to focus, or they’ll be here all day.  
  
“Do you?” Arthur asks, when Eames refuses to do more then darting glances at how his toes are spaced. There are intricacies there that he can, maybe, get the hint of if he tries hard enough.  
  
Eames shrugs.   
  
“Do you ever catch a glimpse of you reflection and when you look you have no idea what your expression is?” Arthur asks and no. No. He doesn’t. And Arthur doesn’t push for an answer and Eames doesn’t give one, because he knows what this is about, because he isn’t dumb. 

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Jan. 27th, 2011 11:31 am (local)

## Rule Ten (Part Sixty)

In case you were wondering how Minecraft works, but also want to laugh until you die:  [ http://bit.ly/dXjq3J ](http://bit.ly/dXjq3J) (NSFW)  
  
"I'm still not going to uni." Eames says, drawing the jagged edges of Arthur's eyebrows, hanging in the empty space of the drawing. He wasn't even sure what this was anymore, the line weight kept changing, Arthur's neck in soft shading, his arms in harsh outline, his feet in careful, diligent detail, his shoulders in strong, darker weight and he didn't know what any of this said about his as an artist, other than fucking all over the place.  
  
"I'm not saying you should." Arthur looks away, dawn at his hands, rubbing them together in a way that blur the lines and Eames just shades the shape, because he can't think too hard about Arthur's hands. Not with all the things he can do with them. Clever fingers, the way he holds a pencil when he's making notes, lightly and notched up near the end, but never so that his fingers smear the letters. "You asked what I was like, and I'm saying that I don't really know. I didn't know what I was like until I actually had to think of it, which was later."  
  
"I know who I am." Eames says, and Arthur's eyes are dark and maybe not the same shape, and his jawline is the same cutting angle it is in real life, but Arthur's hair is soft, and sticking up at all edges and he hasn't tried to fix it. Eames hand slows, and he strokes his thumb across each lock, erasing bits of shine and smearing his fingers through his picture's hair. No outlines, just shapes and shadows and stray strands. His stomach relaxes and he smiles, but he can see his fingerprints in Arthur's hair, and he likes that.   
  
Arthur stays quiet and Eames doesn't mind, just lets the conversation go, because its better than arguing. It would be easier, for Arthur, if Eames had to go away. If he had to leave and transform, or whatever, and then come back and  _then_ , sure,  _then_ it would be okay to fuck him. Or let Eames fuck him. Whatever. You go out in the world and suddenly it'd be fine.  
  
Or, in a much more fucking likely scenario, Eames leaves, comes back and Arthur has set up with someone. Not on purpose, not, of course not. Arthur wouldn't do that sort of thing on  _purpose_ , but it'd just happen. He'd find his one true whatever and then Eames would have his big life changing event, and no Arthur to show for it, and...maybe,  _maybe_ he'd get a night, before he left, off to wherever. Maybe he'd convince Arthur to just let him have one stupid, fucking night where they pretended to be what they  _should_ be.   
  
Eames slowly shades in the gap between Arthur's leg and the edge of his shorts, moving slow, careful arcs, darkening the space until he has to move up, ignore the line of Arthur's thigh and following the dips and valleys and shadows of his shorts.  
  
Like, the night before, he could come over-bags all packed-and maybe he wouldn't even have to ask. Maybe he could just  _have_ it and then he'd have to leave in the morning and maybe...but Arthur wouldn't ask him to stay. Eames couldn't even pretend he would. He might not  _want_ Eames to go (maybe, he hoped), but he wouldn't  _ask_ him not to. So Eames would leave, and Eames didn't even know what to picture for the point between. Or. Well. He had  _ideas_ , but he didn't really know what the imagine. He'd thought, you know. About looking shit up. Not the blow jobs and whatever, but the. The orders. The ordering thing.  
  
He'd gotten two minutes into the only thumbnail that looked interesting and where he knew what most of the tags meant, before he had to close out because it just  _looked_ weird. He didn't want to crawl around and call Arthur. Uh. Sir. Or master. He just. And he didn't want to be whipped either. Or called a filthy slut (or, well,  _maybe_ ), or, like. Pissed on, or whatever it was in some of those tags, he just... liked knowing Arthur knew what was going on. But not...he didn't know. It was dumb. It was like earlier, when he fucking...went mental because Arthur had sat him down and he'd wrapped himself up in that thought and got lost in it.

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Jan. 27th, 2011 01:41 pm (local)

### Rule Ten (Part Sixty Two)

MOAR TOMORROW. FOOD PORN TONIGHT.  
  


Arthur always moves like he has a plan, when he cooks. He lays everything he needs out, and he always times things so that while the potatoes are boiling he can score and braise the duck, and steam the asparagus, and Eames just sits at the table and enjoys the view. Arthur hasn't changed clothing, so he's walking around barefoot, and Eames can't seem to stop looking down at his feet. Arthur doesn't  _do_ barefoot all that often.  
  
"What's for dessert?" Eames asks, because Arthur being all barefoot and half dressed is doing weird things to his head. Not the normal things it should do to his head, but like his brain took a left turn somewhere and got lost.  
  
"It's a surprise." Arthur says, boiling a sauce on the stove and putting the prepacked dinner rolls on a baking sheet and slipping them into the preheated oven. "You'll like it though."  
  
Eames doesn't really care. Arthur knows what he likes, and it will be delicious, and he'll eat about half the cake and then...he wonders if Arthur got him a present too. Not just the whole party and dinner lark. A day like this is basically the perfect gift, really, he doesn't really want anything you could buy, he doesn't think. He'd been thinking about what to do with his mad money, but he doesn't have a clear idea. There's nothing he really wants to buy, mostly because he isn't sure where to put anything.   
  
"Come over here and try this." Arthur says, and Eames gets up and Arthur holds up a spoon with the sauce in it and slips it right into Eames mouth once he's close enough. The sauce is a cranberry, orange thing, tart and tangy over his tongue, not what he'd think to pour over meat, but Arthur does stuff like that. It's just this side of sticky and he licks it off his lips, has to scrape it off with his teeth, and he's  _starving_ suddenly.  
  
"Good?" Arthur asks and Eames nods and Arthur drains the potato and puts them in his standing mixer, adding some half-and-half and melted butter until the potatoes get creamy-thick and fluffy, mixing in with the chopped fresh chives (and before coming over to Arthur's house, he had no idea what the fuck a chive  _was_ , he'd lived in a world of salt, pepper, vinegar and mayonnaise), some sort of soft cheese with garlic and whatever that Eames would eat with a spoon if Arthur let him, and some Brie (again. If it hadn't been on a pizza, Eames wouldn't have known it from a mold)  
  
"Yeah." Eames says as Arthur hands him another spoonful and creamy-fluffy mash, speckles with bits of red skin and green chive and smelling like he wants to take the bowl and eat it out like cookie dough or something and he pauses with the spoon in the air so Eames just leans forward and licks it clean. Arthur pulls the spoon away and Eames really would just run off with the bowl if he could.  
  
"Yeah." He agrees again and Arthur smiles, and shoos Eames out again as he puts the duck under the boiler and grills up the asparagus in malt vinegar, salt and olive oil. Eames can't cook worth shit, doesn't know one thing from another, and if his drawing is any indication, he likes taking bits and pieces of things and running with them. Cooking, takes, like. Planning. And forethought. And shit. He  _could_ follow a recipe, he guesses, but he doesn't see the point? Or, like. He doesn't know. He just feels like if you're gonna cook, you should want to.  
  
Arthur takes down the good china-and of course Arthur is the type of person to have good china, even though he's not married, or whatever (thank God)-and cuts slices into the sizzling hot duck, places thin, slippery slices of mandarin orange (Arthur will put oranges in everything. He's a man obsessed) and the sauce over the top, a pile of asparagus on one side, balancing out the plate with a mound of mash and a dinner roll opposite the duck.  
  
He places Eames plate down first, then clicks everything off before sitting down next to him, instead of across, bumping his arm against Eames' and nods. "Don't worry, I made extra so you don't collapse in on yourself."  
  
"Good, I'm starving." Eames says, ripping the roll open first, slathering it with butter, because you should always eat the bread first, so you can grab more while they're still warm.

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Jan. 28th, 2011 10:32 am (local)

### Rule Ten (Part Sixty Three)

Today I went to the Minecraft version of Hell. It. It was bad guys. It. It was bad. ::criesandcriesandcries::  
  
The bread let out a ghost of steam as Eames broke into it. It was the good kind of roll, not those paper-crust dry ones you got at like, buffets and shit, but crusty and soft and the butter melting into the insides and he grabs another two before he's even finished chewing, and starts cutting into the duck, which spills juice onto the plate, so he can mop it up with more bread.  
  
Arthur, meanwhile, it still cutting up his asparagus, and doesn't look even mildly surprised that Eames is eating so quickly. Eames swallows and takes a bite of duck, tangy and rich and, unlike chicken, duck has some flavor to it, has some  _texture_ to it, and he smiles at Arthur in approval.  
  
"I sort of guessed by your nervous chipmunk impression you liked it." Arthur replied, chewing on a pieces of asparagus, "you can taste it, right?"  
  
"I'm hungry." Eames replies, because he's  _starving_ , and, yeah, he'd like to. Relish. The dinner, or something, but he wants the next bite even more, and the asparagus is still a bit crunchy, and he can taste the vinegar mingling in with the duck and the butter, and he was one of those kids who actually sort of liked it when his peas got all smashed up with his mashed potatoes.  
  
"After dinner we can go get your present." Arthur says, looking at his watch. "If you want."  
  
Eames gives him a look, because who doesn't want a present? Seriously? Eames eats a bit more slowly, because what  _would_ Arthur get him? Clothing? He already got Eames clothing, took him shopping with a grim determination and never exactly picked things out (though Eames wouldn't mind. if he did. Like. Arthur would dress him up like a prat or nothing.) but did make suggestions and he did pay. The people behind the counter didn't even have the decency to give them a second look, which irritated Eames more then it really should. Like. They could at least pretend that maybe he and Arthur were maybe fucking.  
  
Not clothing, probably. Games? Likely, actually, some art supplies. Trying to be supportive and whatever for Eames new hobby. Which would be nice, he guesses, nice to not have to go to class with a Ziploc bag of broken bits of charcoal (not that anyone else has a much better set-up. It's a community college art class) but maybe he'll take more classes. Or just start drawing more. But Arthur already had gotten him a sketchbook-since they needed to do daily sketches, or whatever. He does random things, desks at school, the inside of his closet, just...whatever is handy when he's bored, and in a packed classroom, sketching loots sort of like taking notes, or enough that the teacher is cool with it.  
  
Or, rather, Eames isn't throwing lit cigarettes at the poor bastard, so it's not like he can be bothered to deal with Eames.   
  
But he said  _get_ Eames present. Maybe they're going to go to the mall and Arthur is going to do one of those "Buy whatever you want" things. Which would be fine, he guesses, but then, Arthur isn't really the type. He's the type to have a plan about what to get Eames, a whole brainstorming list and then the pros and cons of each until only one remained, at which point he'd research that, decide the best version to get and that would be the present.  
  
Maybe he got Eames a bicycle. It seems like something he'd do. And he didn't come  _in_ with a bicycle. Maybe he knew which one to get and he'd left it at the store for later pick-up. Eames wouldn't mind a bicycle, actually. It be better than walking everywhere, since he wasn't going to get a car anytime soon, as he still didn't know how to drive, and the States had terrible public transportation.  
  
"Do you want dessert or your present first?" Arthur asks, when Eames has eaten all of the extras and is now somewhat sated for the time being.  
  
"Is dessert what I want it to be?" Eames asks.  
  
"No." Arthur says, clearing up. "It's cake."  
  
"And cake isn't a metaphor or anything?"  
  
"Nope." Arthur leans on the counter. "Present or dessert."  
  
"Is the  _present_ what I want it to be?" Eames tries and Arthur looks more than slightly exasperated and so Eames holds up his hands. "I know. Okay. I know. I just."

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Jan. 28th, 2011 11:29 am (local)

### Rule Ten (Part Sixty Four)

  
  


"I know what you had to do. Dessert or gift?"  
  
"Gift." Eames says, because cake is cake, but the curiosity is sort of niggling down in his gut, and he wants to know, and then he can decide how he feels about it over cake. It's not going to be disappointing, because he didn't  _expect_ a gift.  
  
Arthur nods slowly and then gestures with his head, "Go get your shoes and coat on, we have to drive a bit. I need to get changed."  
  
"Must you?" Eames asks, and Arthur looks down at himself.  
  
"This isn't at all flattering."  
  
"Ah, but it's less then normal. I can see your wrists." Eames feigns a swoon. "You hussy, showing off the shape of your legs. It's giving me the vapors."  
  
"Go have some vapors with your shoes on." Arthur steers him back to his room, but he's grinning, so it's fine. It's probably the bicycle. They're going to pick it up at the store, and tomorrow they'll go for a bike ride, and it'll be good.

\---

  
  
Arthur is drumming his thumbs on the steering wheel, like he's nervous and Eames is sort of shamelessly watching him, because he can, and it's better then the darkened landscape of shapeless buildings and cars rushing to get home. He doesn't know what's still open now, most everything closes at five.  
  
"Eames, I just want you to know that you don't need to accept the gift, if you don't want it."  
  
Eames sits up. "An why wouldn't I want it?"  
  
"I don't know." Arthur sighs. "But if you don't want it, you can tell me. I've already made arrangements. But if, for whatever reason, you don't want it, you can tell me."  
  
"Do you have a back-up gift?" Eames asks, because it feels like something Arthur would do.   
  
"Yeah." Arthur says. "Not  _ready_ , I'd have to get it, but I have a back up plan." Arthur taps his fingers along with his thumb and doesn't look at Eames even when they hit a red light. They're in a residential area, never got on the highway, so Eames is sort of maybe really confused as to what the fuck Arthur got him. A house? Are they going to a party? Is Arthur setting him up on a blind date? A prostitute?  
  
"Is it a hooker?" Eames asks.  
  
"Eames, if you were going to get sex from me tonight, I would do it personally. I don't delegate important tasks." Arthur takes a left. "We're almost there. It's nothing to do with sex, so calm down."  
  
"Excuse me for being seventeen." Eames slumps into the seat and looks out the window.   
  
"Yes, your poor sexless life is so hard. My balls weep for you." Arthur drives them slowly down the round neighborhoods and then parks them outside a house. A surprise party? A pool?  _What is it_ ?  
  
"They better." Eames mutters. "They  _better_ weep."   
  
"Come on." Arthur gets out of the car, and Eames follows, because of course he's going to follow. "Be polite."  
  
"It is a hooker, isn't it?" Eames says. "You're lying to me, and it's a high class hooker, and you'll sit in the waiting room thinking about me, and I'll be up there thinking about you, and it'll be terrible."  
  
"It's  _not a hooker_ , please do not call the person who answers to the door a hooker." Arthur adds as he rings the bell. "No one in this house is a hooker."  
  
"What about that house?" Eames points to the house across the street that has black-out curtains and no lights on at all, and yet a low bass thrum beats out of it, so you don't really hear it, but you can sort of feel it through the pavement.  
  
"I have suspicions, but I don't think they take money." Arthur replies, glancing over. "I have never actually seen anyone in or out of there."  
  
"You come around here a lot?" Eames looks around. Are these Arthur's friends? Do they have someone who is suspiciously in Eames age range and the adults will drink wine and eat cheese or however the fuck adults socialize and...well, fuck that.  
  
"Usually." Arthur says.  
  
There's barking and then a jingle in the doorway as someone opens the door, and a young girl is staring up at them.  
  
"Oh." She says and then pushes the door open and they step in, while she takes the stairs two at a time. "It's just Arthur."

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Jan. 28th, 2011 12:01 pm (local)

### Rule Ten (Part Sixty Five)

 

"Well who did you think it was going to be at this time of night?" A woman's voice replies, a French accent pierce through her words like a toothpick through fancy hor d'oeuvres, which are the first thing that comes to mind when French pops up in his head. Well. And hookers, but that was already there.  
  
"It could have been for  _me_ ." The girl replies, haughty and signs loudly enough that Eames can hear it from the lower part of the split level. "I have friends  _too_ ."  
  
"Oh course you do. And they're all in bed where they should be."  
  
"It's only  _six_ , mom."  
  
"Mmm, silly, isn't it, how bedtime gets earlier and earlier the longer the week goes on?"  
  
"Phillipa," Arthur says. "She decided a month ago that she would be the Official Door Opener of the Cobb household."  
  
"Where are we?"  
  
"getting your present. I left it here for reasons that will become clear when you see it."  
  
"He's in the basement, Arthur!" The mom adds, not in quiet a shout, but in a voice that carries.  
  
"Thanks Mal." Arthur calls back.  
  
"You're now socially required to come over next Thursday for dinner, since I have you in my clutches. If you don't I will keep you all night with boring conversation and the bad wine. I know how polite you are, Arthur. I can keep you here for weeks. You will hint, and I will just keep on talking."  
  
A dog comes up to Eames and shoves its head right in his crotch and he shuffles away. Arthur takes the dog by the collar. "Back off Millie. Behave like a lady."  
  
She has big droopy eyes, like she's extremely nervous about something and Arthur just picks her up, despite the fact that she is, in fact, a full grown dog, and she flops all over him, panting in Eames direction. "When they first got Millie she was too small to climb stairs, so I carried her everywhere. Now she expects it."  
  
"Is my gift a Frenchwoman threatening you into dinner?" Eames asks.  
  
"It's in the basement." Arthur says.  
  
"If it's a model train set, I will kick you."  
  
"No, that's Dom's shtick." Arthur puts Millie down on the stairs and she pauses, before toddling up them for something more exciting than them. "He likes building his own little worlds."  
  
"If I don't find out what my gift is within the next ten minutes, I'm going tot ell everywhere here I'm your love slave."  
  
Arthur pauses. "Mal would be happy for me, actually, and I'm not sure it would register with Dom. So yeah, you could do that."  
  
"Come  _on_ ."   
  
Arthur opens the door and grabs him by the wrist to pull him down into the unfinished basement. "Dom?"  
  
"Down here." A man replies. "Also, I finished my church today. It has a gravel path, you need to see it. The windows took forever."  
  
"Sure. We can show Eames."  
  
The man-Dom-scrambles out from behind the wall. "Wait, I get to meet-I get to meet you." He says and comes over and shakes Eames hand. "It's wonderful to finally meet you. Arthur does not stop talking about you no matter how much you hint that maybe he should. As in conversation with old ladies in the supermarket."  
  
"She started it." Arthur replies, stiffly and Eames doesn't know what's going on, and his present  _better not be_ model train making lessons, or whatever.   
  
"Can I have a minute?" Arthur asks, "I'll bring him back up in a bit. I promise."  
  
"If you don't Mal will probably do something terrible to your car in order to keep you here." Dom says and he climbs the stairs, "See you in a bit."  
  
Arthur takes Eames shoulders. "Now. Before you see the present, understand that I've already gotten everything taken care of, regardless of whether you decide to keep it or not, okay?"  
  
" _What is it_ ?" Eames asks and Arthur turns Eames around and walks him in the room fully.

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Jan. 28th, 2011 12:45 pm (local)

### Rule Ten (Part Sixty Six)

I was not trying to make this suspenseful. On Twitter I basically just told everyone what it was this morning.  
  
The dog looks up when Arthur pushes him forward. There's two metal dishes on the mat, as well as a carrier and a few toys-a rope, and a penguin that squeaks when he picks it up.  
  
"You got me a dog?" Eames asks, because it's either that or Arthur got him a model train set that looks like someone has been lovingly obsessed with it for a few years now. "Arthur I don't...I can't take..."  
  
"I know you can't take her home, so she can stay at mine until you find somewhere to live. Whenever that may be. I knew that was the case when I thought of it. She's had her shots and license, I have all the supplies she'll need, and until you get a paying job I can take care of any medical bills. But she would be your responsibility otherwise, as so much as possible with the arrangement."  
  
Eames nods and just sort of stands there. The dogs stares at him and she crouches down, offers his hand for her to sniff, and she does so, licks his fist-probably still smells like duck- and then looks at Arthur.  
  
"She have a name?"  
  
"She's a rescue dog. Her old owners gave her a name, but they also kept her in a tiny apartment and then gave her up when she started chewing on everything without exercise. She's a Samoyed, though, which you can research on your own. They're a friendly breed, though, for the most part. The kennel said she's just a bit shy."  
  
"How old?" She's soft, incredibly fluffy, and he doesn't need to know shit about dogs to know she's going to need to be brushed frequently. Which would be fine, if she grew to trust him. She could flop on his legs while he watched telly and he could brush out her fur, and it'd be a nice evening. The fur it thick and white and it's sort of like what he used to think cloud should feel like, and she doesn't shrink away, pushes up into his hair and gives him a smile and Arthur leans down and hands him a treat to give her. She won't eat out of his hand but she does crunch it down the moment he puts it on the ground and sniffs around for more.  
  
"Two years." Arthur says and makes no move to attract the dog's attention. "She's house trained, mostly, except when she gets nervous, but I have a yard."  
  
"Could she sleep with me in m...the guest room." Eames asks, because he doesn't like the idea of her sleeping outside. He knows plenty of dogs do, and it's fine, provided they have a good shelter, but if she's his dog, he wants her funky smelling breath in his face and for her to hog the sheets and make his life inconvenient, because that's how you knew that someone was there.   
  
"If you wanted her to." Arthur agrees.  
  
"What if...what were you going to do if I..."  
  
"Dom was happy to take her. Millie would have been upset about it for a bit, but she'd get used to it eventually, or if that didn't work out, I had another friend willing to take her who would have been a good home. It was fine."  
  
Arthur holds out a collar, which isn't some cheap, brightly colored nylon thing you'd get because you needed something. It's an old fashioned proper leather collar, wide and soft, with her license and Arthur's address clipped to the ring. There's also a harness, which Eames guesses is for walks? Which sort of makes sense, as she's a big dog and you'd need the harness to keep a hold of her without, like, hurting her neck.   
  
Eames takes it and lets her sniff it. And he feels like this is something you should ask about. Owning something. Since she's alive, and yeah, he knows dog don't understand English, or whatever, but. Fuck. Maybe the universe will send him a sign or something.  
  
"So? How about it?' He asks, quiet, and yeah, Arthur can hear him, but Arthur doesn't say anything. instead moving to stare at the model train diorama and she sits down across from him, and hell, that's good enough for him. She keeps trying to sniff the collar while he puts it around her neck, but then doesn't seem bothered except to scratch it into place with a jingle of tags.  
  
"I'll tell Dom to put Millie out in the yard so you two can come up and meet everyone." Arthur says and heads upstairs and Eames stares into the eyes of  _his_ dog and doesn't even know what to do about it. 

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Jan. 28th, 2011 01:24 pm (local)

### Rule Ten (Part Sixty Seven)

MOAR TOMORROW  
  
Arthur got him a dog, and yeah, he can't take her home, and this is really just another reason for Eames to spend all his time with Arthur, but she's  _his_ . Theirs, sort of, maybe, and he can't gets his hands out of her fur long enough to even string this together to make sense. Arthur got him a  _dog_ .  
  
"I think he has a taking in strays kink, personally." Eames says and then takes the lead and clips it on. When he stands she stands and follows when he goes. She stops at the stairs, sniffing them and then staring up at him. He tugs on the lead.   
  
"Up the stairs. Come on." He goes up and opens the door, and by then she's gone back to the mat. So he leads her back to the stairs and when she doesn't go up he goes and picks up her paws and puts them on the first step, like maybe she needs the reminder. She stands there, smiling at him.  
  
And then he thinks about Arthur and Millie, so he carefully picks her up, ready to put her down if she doesn't like it. She barks again, fidgeting, but doesn't seem overly upset that's she's being heft off the ground and then goes limp and heavy in his arms, shoving her cold nose into his ear. He goes up the stairs quickly.  
  
The lower part of the split level has a tiny bathroom, a closed door which can't lead to a room that's very big, a living room area with a couch staring at the fireplace. He lets her examine everything, and then she goes back to the basement stairs and whines at them.  
  
Eames wonders if Arthur got him a dumb dog, or if she really just doesn't understand stairs. It's fine. She'll figure it out, he can couch her on it later. She goes back up to him and sits, like he can solve all her problems, so she doesn't need to worry about it. So he picks her up again and takes her up to the higher part of the split level.   
  
The adults are, in fact, sitting around with wine, or, well, Mal is, and Dom has a beer, while Arthur isn't having anything.  
  
"Eames!" Mal stands. "You are exactly how Arthur described you in painstakingly drunken detail."  
  
Arthur flushes and Eames grins to himself, because, well, fuck yeah Arthur described him in  _painstaking_ detail. "You will have a glass of wine with me, because if you turn into another beer drinker I will cry."  
  
"You realize you have decades of proper lager drinking Englishman to beat out?" Eames asks.  
  
"Yes, but you will forever had fond memories of your seventeenth birthday where a beautiful, mysterious Frenchwoman gave you a perfectly gorgeous ruby port and made you drink it until you stopped pulling a face, thus showing you the ways of the world."  
  
"I will not a pull a face." Eames says, because he won't.   
  
"There's the spirit." She agrees, easily, putting a port glass that he recognizes from watching too many period pieces while bored and too lazy to change the channel. "Arthur has, no doubt, forbidden you to drink, so I have time to sink my claws into you."  
  
"He really shouldn't drink."  
  
"All his classmates are in a field somewhere having a kegger and fucking each other under the stars." She dismisses, "Do they still call them keggers?"  
  
"I believe so, ma'am."  
  
"Ma'am is what the telemarketers and sales associates call me. Look at me Dom. You married me and turned me into a ma'am, not a  _madame_ . Perfectly tragic. Such a blunt, ugly little word, ma'am. Not when he says it, though. My father was from Britain you know. You speak nothing like him, of course, but your vowels remind me of home."  
  
Eames nods and then goes to look for the Dog, who is licking a spot on the kitchen floor, her lead trailing behind her, and he gets up to take care of that. There are more treats on the counter, in a glass jar, and he takes one and holds it in front of her and she follows him back to the table.  
  
"She's a beautiful dog." Dom says.  
  
"We can't stay long." Arthur says to Mal, the two of them having had a conversation with their eyes or something previous to that and Eames can't help but feel sort of victorious when his dog ( _his_ dog) lays down at his feet and lets the rest of the conversation just happen, drinking his port (which is fucking  _sweet_ like a punch to the teeth) and feeling the warmth of  _his dog_ against his feet.

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Jan. 29th, 2011 03:46 am (local)

### Rule Ten (Part Sixty Eight)

 

Arthur does, eventually, manage to get them back to the car with a solemn oat that he will be back around for Thursday, and that he will bring Eames by sometime soon, and Eames goes with a solemn oath to visit sometime just by himself so they can gossip like thieves over Arthur.  
  
"And then we can share all his secrets and you'll get to see how darling he is when he blushes."  
  
"I'm not darling." Arthur says.  
  
"Yes you are," she fusses squeezing his face between his hands. "You are such a darling, darling boy, and you will visit Thursday or Dom and I will go on a thousand dates and you'll have to babysit the children and I will feed them espressos and cotton candy and let them watch those loud cartoons with all the explosions."  
  
"Okay, okay." Arthur pulls away.   
  
" _Darling_ " Eames says, "will you help me with this?"  
  
"I hate all of you."  
  
"What about me?"  
  
"Except James. I hate everyone except James, because James has Superman pajamas."  
  
The little boy seems pleased with this, and goes back to trying to become one with his father's leg. Arthur comes and takes the bag with all his Eames's dog supplies a Eames carefully lifts her carrier and she trots along behind him, smiling at the outdoors like it's a strange other world she never considered. She goes into the carrier when he picks her up and puts her on the backseat, and then he sits back there with her instead of shotgun with Arthur.  
  
Arthur doesn't seem surprised and after a moment shakes Dom's hand goodbye, heft James up to spin him in a tight superhero circle and very seriously bids Phillipa a goodnight, then getting in that car before anyone else can say goodbye.  
  
"They seem...nice." Eames says, his dog pressing her nose to the bars in the door and Arthur is watching him in the rearview.  
  
"They are. Mal calms down when she isn't making a spectacle for a new guest. She likes to make an impression."  
  
"I got that,  _darling_ ." Eames says and Arthur doesn't blush like he did with Mal, he just looks into the mirror with a hot glance and Eames' mouth goes dry, but his hands start sweating and he scraped his lip with his teeth, because there are some looks that Arthur has that you can  _feel_ and that is one of them.   
  
"Do I get a special sort of kiss tonight,  _darling_ ?" Eames asks, staring at Arthur's neck, the sort hairs down his nape, and the way his loosened collar now showed enough of his neck to be going on with.   
  
"Eames." Arthur says, and there's a warning there, but Eames feel giddy-not with the port-but drunk on the entire day thus far, and it's his birthday. And today that actually means something, and he wants to know how much.   
  
"You've made everything else about today special," Eames looks down into the carrier, where his dog is clearly trying to figure out why the world is moving. "And you owe me one, I saved it just so I'd know today would be good."  
  
"You didn't trust me to come through?" Arthur doesn't move when Eames reaches forward to touch his neck, just glances at him and then goes back to driving.  
  
"I didn't want to expect anything," Eames corrects.  
  
Arthur sighs and drums his thumbs against the steering wheel. "I didn't have any plans for that."  
  
"Yes you did. You have plans for everything, and you knew I was going to collect today. So you  _have_ a plan, and I just want you to share it. Going to give me a quick peck goodnight before sending me to bed, or are you going to make it something to remember, hm?"  
  
"Do you want it to be something to remember, Eames?" Arthur asks, quiet, low. Arthur voice always gets deeper when he's trying to take control of a situation, and Eames thinks he should push more, just to hear it. "It's going to go back to normal, tomorrow, and I don't...want you to be disappointed."  
  
"Then I want what I can have today, yeah?"  
  
He strokes his fingers down the line of Arthur's neck and then retreats before Arthur can tell him to stop.  
  
"Not until before you go to bed." Arthur says. "Just. Don't worry about it. We have cake. Which is not a metaphor. And you will eat it off a plate. The plate is also not a metaphor."  
  
"Someday," Eames says, leaning back into the seat, unworried about everything and not even caring how sounds, "One of these days, I mean, you're going to let me wreck you."

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Jan. 29th, 2011 03:50 am (local)

### Rule Ten (Part Sixty Nine)

And not a hint of actual sixty-nineing. I tried)  
  
Arthur is quiet as they drive in the dark for awhile, and Eames is too busy just letting the car move, arm on top of the plastic of his dog's carrier.  
  
"You know my conditions." Arthur replies at last and Eames smiles.  
  
"And one of these days I'll have my own crew, and a hobby or whatever, and everything will be perfect." Eames looks down at his dog. "Just you wait."  
  
"Call that number I gave you, tomorrow." Arthur says.  
  
"Why?"  
  
"You'll need it. Tomorrow." Arthur stops the car and they get out, Eames opening the carrier and helping his own little darling out and she barks in reply to the neighborhood dog doing his usual going-nuts-because-holy-fuck-there-was-a-noise and Eames gets her inside before the rest of the neighborhood can get started.  
  
He unclips her lead so she can investigate the ground level and takes off his shoes, while Arthur goes to fill her water dish. There's a small bag of dog food in the bag, but they'll have to go shopping for more, she's a big dog, probably eats a lot, and now that Eames needs to add a daily run to his exercises for her she's going to be as hungry as him.  
  
When he throws her mat down she immediately stops looking at the couch and moves to sit on it and chew on one ratty corner. He puts her toys down, and when that didn't grab her attention, he waggled the knotted rope in front of her nose.   
  
"She's probably just nervous from all the moving. She'll settle in." Arthur says and Eames gets up and figures she could use a bit. He'll give her a tour after she's had a moment to herself. He's patient. He can wait for her to trust him.  
  
Arthur gets the cake box out and puts it on the counter, sliding out two plates and taking the cake knife from the knife block.  
  
"What kind is it?"  
  
"German chocolate, from the bakery down on Wallace." Arthur says, cutting Eames an indecently large slice of cake and putting it on the plate with one of his nice forks with the patterns etched into the silver.  
  
He's sure the bakery has plenty of good food, he's positive, but the first time he went he'd just ordered the cake that looked best, and had yet to go back. It wasn't the rich, dark chocolate of like a normal chocolate cake would have. It's chocolaty, but in a sort of light, easy way. It's the coconut sort of filling that gets him. It the reason why they've been there nineteen times and he  _never orders anything new_ .  
  
It's sweet without strangling his tongue over it, and feels the way a cake  _should_ feel, sort of light and foamy, he guesses, and then the coconut filling is rich and easy, a weightier sort of confection, and it's like the cake understands itself and is trying to balance everything out.  
  
He eats it like it will vanish, not because, necessarily, he wants it, but because when he's done he might get to lick the chocolate out of Arthur's mouth, and maybe they'll get a proper snog tonight, yeah? Like he wants. Hips apart to let the Holy Spirit in, or whatever, but something proper. Something you can hang onto, something you can really  _feel_ afterwards. 

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Jan. 29th, 2011 12:39 pm (local)

## Rule Ten (Part Seventy)

 

He eats three slices of cake, and Arthur makes him drinks a glass of milk and then sort of stares at him until he brushes his teeth, because Arthur worries about shit like that, and then Eames goes directly to Arthur's room, because he isn't going to wait anymore.  
  
"There's still another two hours before you have to go to bed," Arthur says when he catches on to Eames nefarious plan.  
  
"Well you should start now, and finish up sometime around then." Eames lifts his chin and cross his arms, and he  _means_ it. His birthday doesn't end until midnight and he's not going to budge an inch, because this is what he wants now. He doesn't want to watch a movie, he doesn't want to play video games, there is one thing left of today that he wants and he wants as much of it as he can get today.  
  
Arthur sighs and rubs his forehead. "You're impossible when you get an idea in your head."  
  
Eames moves closer. "It's just for today, right? You said it's just for today. So make it good, yeah? Kiss me like you would if you could."  
  
Arthur lifts his head and considers him a moment. "Is that what you want?"  
  
"Yeah." Eames says. "I want you to do it like you would every night if I fit all your rules."  
  
Arthur takes off his jacket and goes to his closet, hanging it up and loosening his tie. "Do you want the authentic expirence?"  
  
Eames sits on the bed as Arthur rolls up his sleeves.   
  
"Yes." Eames says and Arthur stands, his back to Eames, staring into the closet.  
  
"No more than kissing," Arthur clarifies, "and if I do this, you have to promise me you'll call that number I gave you."  
  
"I promise." Eames says quickly, because, yeah, sure, whatever. He'll do whatever. "I got it."  
  
Arthur straights and takes a breath, "And you'll tell me if I do anything that makes you uncomfortable."  
  
"Stop stalling." Eames say and Arthur tilts his head to look at him, and it's like he's stepped into a different...like he's sort of...shifted. A bit. Settled into different eyes and he moved to Eames.  
  
"I do what I like, Eames." Arthur asserted, quietly. "And you do as I tell you, don't you?"  
  
Eames lifts his chin and Arthur traces the line of his jaw, like he can do what he wants, as long as he wants. He has no expectations he needs to fulfill, he can just...stand there, and watch, if he wants to. Eames watches back, because he's going to get what he wants. He  _is_ , damn it.  
  
"There are so many terrible things I'd do to you, if you were mine." Arthur says, burying his hand into Eames hair and scratching along his scalp.   
  
"Yeah?"  
  
Arthur grips his hair and pushes until Eames is on his elbows and Eames is looking up at him. Arthur breaks contact entirely and swings himself up against the headboard and Eames rolls onto his hands and moves up the bed and Arthur grabs him by the shirt collar, fingers against his collarbone and Eames just fucking wants him, Wants him like you want, like. Fuck. It's sizzling along his skin like oil in a pan, popping out of him and he's surprised that it doesn't just, like, burn fucking everything down.  
  
Eames is still on his hands and knees when Arthur hooks his fingers on Eames jaw and grabs him in, tilting his head for him, and Eames goes, not even caring what he looks like, because he's got Arthur touching him like he fucking well means it, hand along his face, keeping him still. Not tongue, not yet, first Arthur just moves until Eames falls into his rhythm, because with Arthur you do just fall into  _his_ rhythm.   
  
"Here's how it is going to work.' Arthur says, fingers like steel and Eames just stares at Arthur's lip because he can't look away. "I will kiss you until you have to go to bed, gladly,  _unless_ you make any move-unconscious or otherwise-to make this  _more_ than kissing. Do you understand? If you put you hands anywhere on me, I stop. If you start humping anything, me, the bed,  _anything_ , I stop. You come in your pants, I stop."  
  
Eames frowns. "I'm not going to-"  
  
"Won't you?" Arthur says. "You're just seventeen, Eames. You don't have an ounce of control, do you? You allowed to ask me to back off for a bit, if you need me to, as long as you need, but you're going to bed at twelve, and I will stop if this steps even a measure out of my guidelines. Do you understand?"

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Jan. 29th, 2011 12:48 pm (local)

### Rule Ten (Part Seventy One What Even Is This)

This is the last part of Eames' birthday. New thread after this. MOAR TOMORROW.  
  


"Yes." Eames looks up at Arthur's eyes, and then has to look down. "Fine. Okay. I get it."  
  
"Good." Arthur says and pulls Eames back in until Eames is leaning on the headboard next to him, hands gripping the bedspread, so he knows where they are and Arthur's is snogging him a bit like that first time, like he's trying to teach Eames a lesson, but also like a more recent one, soft and easy in what he can do, and Eames sits where he's been put and kisses back, because this is his. This is something he can have, and fuck it. He will.  
  
It's not nearly long enough until he's hard, of course he is, he isn't  _dead_ , but the problem comes when it starts to hurt. He isn't sure what kind of noise he makes, but Arthur grins, all self-satisfied, against his mouth and Eames sucks Arthur's lip into his mouth in revenge. Arthur nips at him and Eames needs friction, wants to shove his hand into his lap just for some tiny measure of relief, but he can't because then it'll stop.  
  
He presses down against the mattress to stop himself from doing anything and he can't catch his breath, and he pulls away and Arthur gives him a moment, and it doesn't help because he needs  _relief_ .  
  
"Can. Can I just." Eames swallows and Arthur scratches over his scalp.  
  
"Hurt?"  
  
"Yes." Eames hisses and he shifts and Arthur waits.  
  
"You could go get yourself off right now, if you wanted. I'm not stopping you."  
  
Eames takes a deep breath and then pushes himself up for more, and Arthur agreeably goes back, delighting in fucking his mouth, sweet and filthy and Eames wants to touch, wants to ground himself with skin and to pull Arthur on top of him, or center him on top of him, or  _something_ , but he has to just lie here, hands fisted in the sheets and let Arthur lips rub over his, hand on his face, tilting it the way Arthur wanted it.  
  
Eames had to stop again after their teeth clacked, which was ridiculous, but it was one of those things that was weird and imperfect and proof that it was actually happening. His dick fucking  _ached_ , worse than anything and his body was buzzing-tingling, like a flush turned inwards and he couldn't think about anything else, his brain would not disengage and Arthur just sat there, smug and in control and not looking a bit as desperate as Eames felt.  
  
He took a bit longer before going for more, and he knew it couldn't last, and wasn't a bit surprised when Arthur disengaged because Eames had hand on his shoulder,   
  
Arthur gave him another quick, forgiving, peck and Eames ducked his head and breathed into the pillows. "Good?"  
  
Eames nodded, because it had been. It had been heat and nearness and all of Arthur's focus on him, and he'd known he wouldn't get the full two hours, but that he'd gotten more than normal, and that's what he'd been aiming for.  
  
"I'll just." Eames swallows and adjusts his trousers and Arthur lets him go. "We still. Have time. I'll, uh." He clears his throat.  
  
"Sure. Living room? We can watch a movie." Arthur says, like he isn't effected at all, but Eames has eyes. Arthur is as bad off as he is, he just has a better grip on it.  
  
Eames nods, because yeah, sure, he just needs quick wanks and that'll be great. But the wank needs to happen or his dick is going to fucking leave him and run off somewhere and, well, that'll make the snogging sessions a bit easier. and goes to his bedroom, shutting the door behind him.

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Jan. 30th, 2011 09:55 am (local)

### Rule Ten (Part Seventy Two)

 

Lydia slept through the night for once, no nightmares or three am epiphanies, or dreams she had to scrawl in his back in fine tip marker, so Maxwell isn’t groggy and half awake when his cellphone rings. It’s the ring for a new number, not work, or anyone  _from_ work, which are the only people who would call him, these days.   
  
“Wazzat?” Lydia’s head pops out from the blankets like a prairie dog looking for the all clear, and he grabs the phone before she can wake up fully. He puts a hand in her hair and shoves her back onto the pillows and she steals his pillow and flops he other direction.  
  
“Yep?” He answers, since he’s always had shit phone manners—mom’s deaf and dad’s shy, so it wasn’t like they got a whole lot of phone calls for him to practice on. Whatever, if it’s a telemarketer, it’s not like they care. Probably a wrong number.  
  
“Uh. Hello.”  
  
There’s a pause where Maxwell rubs his face and shoves his feet into the flannel slippers Lydia got him two weeks ago, because she’d taken it into her head that they should be the type of couple to wear slippers. He’d said “So the couple that consists of an asexual woman who writes poems on her walls and paints over them, and a heterosexual incidentally homosexual man who happens to be a professional BDSM sub for hire is the kind of couple that needs to wear slippers.”  
  
“Flannel slippers.” She’d clarified, and well, okay then. He padded out of the bedroom and in the kitchen, starting the coffee since he might as well get up anyways.   
  
“So.” Maxwell says, “what’s going on?”  
  
“Yeah, sorry. Arthur told me to. Uh. Call. This is the right number, right? He. Um. He just told me to call this. Number.” The voice is British, and Maxwell checks the area code. Same state, and he puts the phone back to his ear.  
  
“Arthur told you to call. Right uh. He didn’t mention. This. We’re talking about the same Arthur, right?”  
  
“Wears about 17,000 dollars in menswear on a daily basis. Needs to learn to relax. That Arthur?”  
  
“His last name would have worked too, but yeah. That Arthur. And you are?”  
  
“Uh. Eames. And You’re Maxwell Copes. It says on the card. That Arthur gave me. To call.”  
  
“Nice card, isn’t it? Discreet, professional, stylish.”  
  
“Yeah, sure. Doesn’t really say what you do though. You, like, a counselor or something?”  


“Hence the discreet, and yes, in my own way. No schooling, but hey, you don’t need school to show you how to pay attention, right? So. Do you need a counselor?” Maxwell looked in the fridge. Fuck empty, just like it was last night. One of them needs to either pick up enough work that they can buy more groceries at a time, or have less work so they can actually go get some. They have coffee, no creamer, but coffee, which is the important bit, since he was out until three am again, and it’s only, fuck- _ten_ , now. He can grab a nap later, business as usual.  
  
“No.” Eames says, then a pause. “Maybe. Fuck. I promised I’d call so. What do you do that he made me promise.”  
  
Maxwell sits in the good chair and sips his coffee. He’ll grab muffins from the bakery around the corner for when Lydia gets up. “Well, and if you hang up on me here I will understand, and you might need to talk to Arthur about why he sent you here, and maybe we can grab lunch when it’s all had time to settle, hm?”

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Jan. 30th, 2011 09:56 am (local)

### Rule Ten (Part Seventy Three)

I'm going to party so I don't know if there will be another update tonight or not, so I'll throw up the MOAR TOMORROW icon now, and we'll see what happens, m'kay?  
  
  
“…right.” Eames says, which is as good a response as any, and so he puts his feet up and braces himself for a short conversation.   
  
“I’m a professional submissive.” he says, and maybe the guy will know what that is, and maybe he doesn’t. Arthur sent him, which probably means that this is the kid whose sunk into his brain like something Lydia could describe better than he could, water. Erosion. He leaned to look over at the wall. Suits? Not helping. “You know what that means?”  
  
“Um.” Eames clears his throat. “Not…really?”  
  
“Listen. How much do you know about Arthur? I mean. Personally.” Maxwell says, “because if he gave you this number, then he’s trying to tell you something, dude.”  
  
There’s a silence and Maxwell sighs. “Okay, listen, dude. If you want, we can meet up for lunch and talk about this properly, because otherwise you’re just going to be confused, and I’m not great over the phone. Just. Ask Arthur why he wanted you to call me, and tell him Maxwell told him not to be a giant fucking idiot about this, okay? Just. Listen, alright. Does. With Arthur, you spend a lot of time with him, I’m guessing.”  
  
“Yeah.”   
  
“And sometimes, does he get. Not…bossy, but sort of… Intense? Like. He’s fine, he’s normal, he’s sort of got a stick up his ass, but whatever, but then it’s like he focuses down and the whole room just changes, uh. Like. Fuck. Hold on.” He leans around to look at all the words on the wall until he finds one he likes “Narrows down to him.”  
  
Eames is quiet a moment then sort of makes an affirmative noise.  
  
“And you like it when he does that, right? You want that focus on you.”  
  
“How did you…fuck. What is this?”  
  
“Listen, it’s fine. Just. Ask Arthur why he wanted you to call me, and then we can meet up for lunch. Today, if you want, I don’t have to be at work until 9pm."

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Jan. 31st, 2011 11:28 am (local)

### Rule Ten (Part Seventy Four)

 

Lydia wanted to come along, since, well, there was no food in the house, and also there was the part where he begged her like a begging thing—or, well, a man who’s job was to either beg or not beg like he meant it. In any case, he wouldn’t be sitting at lunch alone with…whoever it was that had a python strangle on Arthur’s brain. Also Lydia was better with words than he was, so he could talk and then she could make whatever word mush he’d just committed unto the world into a sentence. He was much better at talking with his hands.  
  
“So what do we know about this guy?” Lydia asked as she devoured the last cheesecake muffin as they walked to the restaurant. “And what do I know about Arthur? Have you told me about Arthur?” She hooked her arm through his as they crossed the street.   
  
“Arthur is the one with the suit who likes wrestling.”  
  
“Which one? You have at least three of those last I checked, because, you know. You’re beefy, people like wrestling you.” She shrugged. “I mean, if you’d gone the dom route you’d be wrestling everyone else to the ground. Also if you’d gone the wrestling route you’d probably do a little bit of both. I mean. Depending on how good you are, I mean.”  
  
“I would make an  _awesome_ wrestler.” He shoved a hand in her face until she bit him and then checked his phone again to see if the kid had called, yet.  
  
“The one in the suit who likes wrestling and then bondage and then just sort of chiefly domination through verbal orders. And he’s good, by the way, he’s one of the good ones.”  
  
“Is he the good one that you’ve described as a sexy tsunami poured into pinstripes or the good one you described as a delicious chocolate cake wrapped in molten sexy heat and menswear?”  
  
“I  _think_ it’s the first one and I’m not certain the second one happened in the world outside your head.”  
  
“Dang it. If you  _do_ meet someone who can be described as such, you better damn well tell me. So. The kid. What do we know about him?”  
  
“Well. We know Arthur is obsessed with him, we know he’s British, that Arthur thinks he’s submissive and wants me to give him the talk.”  
  
“Oh good, that’s helpful.” Lydia says and then he has to wait for a moment because the patterning of some brick caught her eye, and so he idled, holding her hand and considering options, and the best option seemed to be to call Arthur, except he didn’t actually  _have_ Arthur’s number, because people called him, not the other way around, and he didn’t really understand how phones worked, with the buttons…everywhere.  
  
“He’s young, we know that. If he weren’t young then he wouldn’t be sending him to you to talk. New to the scene, obviously, you could guess that, but new enough to the idea that he needs a submissive point of view in order to consider it.”  
  
“I still would have liked some warning. I mean.” Arthur had basically had his own private meltdown, and he  _never_ failed to put on a show. When he walked into a scene he knew exactly what he wanted and how he was going to get it, and it was always,  _always_ a pleasure to work with him, even when Maxwell woke up the next morning so sore he couldn’t stand it. But then Arthur had whiplashed out like. Car. A car accident and…windshields…something.  
  
“Well. The best way to get to know someone is to get to know them.” Lydia shrugged.  
  
When they got there, Maxwell didn’t want to say he  _knew_ who Eames was going to be by some sort of sonar or what have you, for one he was the only person sitting by himself, fiddling with his phone and a Danish, but there was a look to him, too. Not…a submissive, look, but.  
  
“Lost.” Lydia says, for him. “Like he’s a little kid at a grocery store and he just discovered that the green coat he was following didn’t belong to his mother and now he’s standing next to the frozen peas and doesn’t know what to do next.” She leans on him. “Only he doesn’t find his mom the next aisle over looking at cereal.”  
  
Maxwell doesn’t care if that kid  _is_ Eames or not, because that kid right there just needs something, and Maxwell has always been the type to worry about people.

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Jan. 31st, 2011 12:41 pm (local)

### Rule Ten (Part Seventy Five)

 

It’s what he does well. It’s why he and Lydia do well, she’s a fucking mess by herself, and he can fix that, and she can figure out words for him, and it’s good. Fine. She’s not him, doesn’t identify as dynamic at all  
  
“Uh.” The kid says, and he’s not a kid, not really, he’s as beefy as Maxwell is-has tattoos, could pass for 20-something if he wanted to, but he looks young. Holds his body inwards like a scared kid would, face set like he’s waiting for something terrible, and you don’t leave a person like that. Not if you don’t have to.  
  
“Hello, mind if we sit?” Maxwell asks before sliding into a chair and Lydia climbed in next to him. “Name’s Maxwell, and you look like…uh…”  
  
“You need someone named Maxwell. Or maybe a cup filled with a brand Maxwell.” Lydia fills in. “Eames?”  
  
“Yeah. Uh.” He fidgets in his seat. “Arthur says that. Well. Jack shit, but that I should talk to you about. Shit.” He swears. “I don’t know you from Adam, and he wants me to talk to you about. Forget it. I’m out.”  
  
“But you came.” Maxwell says. “He told you to come here, and you did. You argued, I bet, asked why, but in the end you came here because he told you to.”  
  
“He’s not in charge of me or nothing. He just said to try it out. Okay. I’m here, you’re here, we met, this Danish is shit, and we’re done.”  
  
“Or,” Lydia offers, “you could stay and find out delicious gossip about Arthur, and since you’re trying to make him love you, that would be helpful.”  
  
“Fuck, I’m not-“ Eames gets up. “This is. I’m not trying to. I don’t even know you two, so just. Back off, okay. I’m sorry I called, I’ll just. Go.”  
  
“You can do that, or you could wring a free lunch out of me and talk about Arthur. Or, the moon, or chips, or, whatever.”  
  
“Eames,” Lydia says, “You came here because you have questions that no one is answering for you, or can answer for you, and you are justifiably frustrated about it. It’s your life, right? It’s your life, and your choices, but no one is willing to explain anything, and you know what I would be, in your situation? Or, I was, rather. I was angry, I was frustrated, and I was scared, and I just wanted someone to tell me what was wrong with me.”  
  
“Nothing wrong with me. I’m fine.” Eames hasn’t left yet and he’s standing, tall and squared off like he wants to beat up the entire situation. “It’s just. Whatever. It’s fine. I don’t. Arthur gets weird ideas in his head.”  
  
“Or rather, when he gets an idea in his head, you can’t shake it for any amount of love or money?” Maxwell asks, because you seriously cannot do it. It takes Arthur awhile to decide on things—they’ve had pre-game discussions, they were…extensive—but once he does, that’s what he wants and that’s what will happen.  
  
Eames sniffs. “Yeah. Well. You know.”  
  
“I’ll get us stuff. Do you want stuff?” Lydia asks Eames, since she already knows what Maxwell wants, since he basically will eat the same thing for months on end if he can.   
  
“Club sandwich.” Eames says. “And a coffee t—“  
  
She peers at him. “I worked at a coffee shop for nine years. I know what you want.”  
  
“You’re paying.” He shrugs, “If it’s crap I’ll want a new one.”  
  
“Challenge accepted.” She says and weaves her way into the shop, after Maxwell gives her back her wallet, since she just can’t carry important things. Eames watches and then goes back to picking at his Danish. Maxwell rubs his nose, and then fiddles with the napkins.   
  
“So. Like. What do you do. Being…whatever.”  
  
“Well. That takes…background, or…not background. supports? No. Um. Previous...What's the word for- Hold on. Sorry." He has to watch his hands making the words before they catch up in his brain, “foundations. Foundational information. What do you know about. Fuck. Okay, let me start over.”  
  
“I know stuff about that kinky shit. You know. Tying people up and golden showers and whatever. That sort of thing.” He coughs. “Listen, if this is about…sex…stuff, then I don’t really want to hear it, okay? I’m not…like you, I don’t. I just. I like knowing where I stand. I don’t want to get whipped or anything. I don't. I've seen videos, I'm not a moron, I can look shit up on the Internet, okay? I've seen things, and they aren't for me. I just. It's not a sex thing, he's not my sugar daddy or whatever."

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Jan. 31st, 2011 12:46 pm (local)

### Rule Ten (Part Seventy Six)

MOAR TOMORROW  
  


“BDSM. Though it’s kind of a weird acronym since it doesn’t cover the situation and most of the letters can mean several things. Like, well, the B mostly just stands for Bondage, or, well, bloodplay, maybe, but that’s it’s own thing, and the D is for Dominance, as you…okay this isn’t helping.” Maxwell rubs his face. “Fuck, I’m bad at this.”  
  
“Sadism, masochism, right? Whips and chains and collars and the like. And fine. Okay? Whatever, but, that isn’t my thing.”  
  
“You have tattoos don’t you? Plenty of them, for your age.” Lydia says, putting his sandwich and coffee down, and handing Maxwell his soup in a bread bowl. “How did it feel to get those?”  
  
“Look, just because I got ink, doesn’t mean I’m into…I don’t want. I’m not fucking…” Eames gripped the edge of the table. “I’m fine, alright? It’s just Arthur. I’m not some sort of…I don’t know. You call it a scene right? Well I just like a CD or two, I don’t go to the concerts.”  
  
“Nice.” Lydia says. “But even so, you find out you like a song, which means you might like other songs, which means you might like _a_ band, and before you know it, you have the t-shirts, and you may not like any other bands in the genre, but hey. You’ve got the one. You don’t want to be whipped? Neither does he. He’ll do it, for his job, but not because it gets him going. Oh, here we are. Arthur.” She steeples her fingers. “Just do something for me, a moment.”  
  
Eames looks wary and pokes at his sandwich. “What?”  
  
“I need you to picture what it’s like when you get your tattoos, the place in your head you go, or how you feel when it’s done, or the mindset you get into to keep going back for more. Okay? And now, take that and add Arthur. Pretend, for a moment, that Arthur is giving you the tattoo, okay?”  
  
Eames freezes where he sits, just stops, like the film reel ran out and he’s going to stay up there until the screen burns. Lydia nudges him and he clears his throat into his soup. “It’s not about the pain, maybe. For some people, sure. For some people it’s about the endorphin rush, or how it feels after the pain stops. For other people it’s about being taken care of afterwards, or suffering _for_ someone, and then they make it better and it all just sort of gets all knotted up in your head. What if Arthur, getting that look he has—right? That one?—gets that look and, assuming he has all necessary skills and talents, decides, he wants to put his name on you.”  
  
Eames curls over the table and breathes into the metal lattice for a moment. “Shit.”  
  
“And this is why Arthur wanted you to call me, I think.” Maxwell says. “See, for him? He would only ever want to be on the control side of the gun, never, ever on the receiving end. So he doesn’t feel like he can explain it to you.”  
  
“I don’t need it explained. It’s fine. I’m fine. Just…Jesus, you don’t even know me and you’re talking about how I like to get off. That’s weird, right? You realize that’s weird.”  
  
“Is it really any different then if you came out, and Arthur decided to find you a gay man to talk to about it? One who isn’t necessarily interested in you sexually so you can actually discuss everything.”  
  
Eames jaw works. “I don’t like talking with people I don’t know, okay? About that sort of thing. In public. So. Fine, okay, I’m willing to get to know you, alright? And maybe later we can discuss. Whatever.”  
  
“Sure.” Maxwell says. “So. Sports? Cars? Movies? Music? Video Games? I'd ask how school is, but I know that whenever anyone asked me that I wanted to punch them in the groin, because how did they _think_ it was. So. How's your sandwich."  
  
"I feel like I'm on a ruddy blind date."  
  
"Well then I just feel awkward." Lydia says. "Third wheel on the first date? That's doesn't work."  
  
"Why are you here. Are you his...dom, or whatever? It was Dom, right?"  
  
Maxwell nods as Lydia chews. "No. I don't...do that sort of thing. We're dating, and I understand he has needs that I can't fulfill. I'm just here because he gets nervous."  
  
"Do not."  
  
"You're making a paper crane out of your napkin." Maxwell puts it down, still in the sort of flower shape, and Eames half smiles, and, well, that's something, at least.

 

##  [**blue_jack**](http://blue-jack.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Feb. 1st, 2011 12:09 am (local)

### Re: Rule Ten (Part Seventy Six)

 

Eames knows it's a dream. He's heard about something called lucid dreaming where you can change what happens in your dream, and he's never been able to do that, but he almost always knows the difference between his dreams and real life. Part of that is simply that his real life is never as good as his dreams, although he never lets himself dwell on that thought, focuses instead on how vivid everything is, the colors outrageously vibrant, making everything glow a little bit.   
  
He's in a tattoo shop, the same one he went to when he got his last one, he thinks, but he's not sure 'cause the details are a little fuzzy, although he can just make out the picture of someone's back covered in an intricate three-toed dragon. So yeah, maybe it is the same place after all.  
  
He shifts a little and only then realizes he's lying face down on the chair--although he doesn't remember if it could recline all the way down or if he'd just sat backwards in the chair so they could have access to his back--and he's shirtless, his hands holding onto the grips. It's weird that he's dreaming about this, because, yeah, he loves getting inked, but he's never--  
  
"Tell me if it's too much for you."  
  
And Eames tightens up all over, his hands spasming until his fingers start to ache. That's Arthur's voice. Which means it isn't the burly guy with the tattoos covering his head instead of hair behind him, but Arthur.   
  
"Wait," he gasps, or he means to, but it's drowned out by the sound of the tattoo gun starting up. He tries again, but this time, he can't even hear himself, so there's no way Arthur will--oh fuck, it's Arthur, it's Arthur--and he flinches violently at the first touch of the needle.   
  
It's immediately pulled back, and Arthur's voice is gentle when he asks, "Are you alright?" and Eames makes a strangle noise in his throat, unable to speak, and nods his head frantically, because he wants this. Bloody hell, how he wants this.  
  
(I have to go, but I will write you more later, or PM it to you or something 'cause I didn't know if you wanted to write this scene or something like it yourself, but the idea of it was too tempting to resist. >_> So, you know, technically it's your fault. >_>)

 

[ **blue_jack** ](http://blue-jack.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Feb. 1st, 2011 05:39 am (local)

### Re: Rule Ten (Part Seventy Six)

 

"Don't lie to me." And there it is, that note of command that enters Arthur's voice sometimes, the one that makes Eames so very conscious of where he is in relation to Arthur--never close enough--and everything his body is and isn't doing. And it's so stupid, because it's just his  _voice_ , and fuck all, Arthur's got a nice enough voice, but it's nothing special, it's not like Eames even really paid that much attention to it when they first met. But now . . .   
  
"Please," he says, that one word so scratchy and hoarse that it'll be a wonder if Arthur understands, but it's all he's capable of. He'd just needed a second to figure out what was happening, still isn't quite sure--the name Maxwell sort of pulses in the back of his head, although he doesn't know why--and he has to remind himself this is a dream, that dreams never make sense. But dream or not, it's all he has right now, and he digs his forehead into the leather, arching his neck and shoulders up as much as he can.  
  
"Okay, okay." Arthur laughs softly, just the tiniest bit, and his voice is easy and relaxed again. Eames doesn't even have time to mourn the change in tone, because Arthur puts his hand on Eames' shoulder, pushes him flat against the chair, and he shivers all over at the touch, grinding down into the leather, because Arthur is touching him, and it goes without saying that he's hard. "Control yourself," Arthur chides, but he's not serious, can't be, not when he strokes Eames' back, from his shoulder to the top of his jeans and back up again, Eames' muscles twitching in his wake.  
  
It's Eames' dream, and what he wants is for Arthur to keep touching him, to push down his jeans and climb on top of him so he can feel every inch of Arthur's body against his own. (It's not  _all_ he wants by any means, but he's thought about it and thought about it, and he thinks it could be enough, if he could just have that.) But even in dreams, it's about doing what Arthur wants him to do, and when Arthur's hand moves away, he shudders but doesn't say a word in protest.  
  
(er...this is getting a little longer than I'd initially imagined...  
  
Also, seriously, if this is going in a direction you want to reserve for yourself, I will completely understand and stop writing immediately. Comment fics can be flattering but difficult things to deal with.)

 

[ **blue_jack** ](http://blue-jack.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Feb. 1st, 2011 12:28 pm (local)

### I couldn't find where I left off, so I'm changing the title to make it easier on myself

Also, I'm taking my cue from you and going to sleep. Tired...  
  
\-----  
  
He closes his eyes when the tattoo gun starts up again, centers himself, because he knows it's going to hurt, and it's like the first time, when he'd been determined to not make an arse out of himself and vowed to sit through the whole thing no matter how painful it was, but he can't back out in front of Arthur, he just can't. And every time he's gotten a tattoo, he's kind of convinced himself afterward that it wasn't as bad as all that, that it gets easier with each one. And it does actually, because he's kind of ready for it, and it's not the shock it once was, but at the same time, that just means he has to get an even bigger tattoo, something more intricate this time, so the pain is actually worse than the last time, and who the hell is he kidding, it fucking  _hurt_ , and he remembers that now, and it's all he can do not to tense up all over.  
  
So much about pain in a situation like this is the anticipation of it, knowing what's coming and knowing you can back out of it if you want to, but refusing to do so; it's realizing that even though the tattoo gun is in someone else' hand, no one's making you do it, and you can curse the artist all you want, but this is something you're choosing to do to yourself. And it's kind of an epiphany, that he's not doing this  _because_ of Arthur, he's doing it  _for_ him, because nothing is holding him down, and Arthur's already as much as told him they can stop whenever Eames says. But this is something he can do that Arthur wants, and it's ridiculous how that makes him feel--useful and needed, because Arthur didn't ask anyone else, he asked  _Eames_ \--but it doesn't change the fact that it is the way he's feeling.  
  
The first press of the needle makes him grunt, but he doesn't flinch again, and after all the waiting, it's almost a relief in its own way. That doesn't mean he doesn't hold onto the grips that much harder or grit his teeth, but he keeps repeating the thought  _this is for Arthur_ , and it makes it a little easier to bear.

 

[ **blue_jack** ](http://blue-jack.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Feb. 2nd, 2011 03:11 am (local)

### Re: I couldn't find where I left off, so I'm changing the title to make it easier on myself

 

He tries to focus on something other than the pain, and he wonders for an instant what Arthur is tattooing on him. But as soon as he has the thought, he knows the answer, and he has to take a deep breath, feels almost dizzy with it, and it’s suddenly a lot easier to stay in place. Arthur is marking him, is laying claim to him, and it just—  
  
Tattoos are permanent. Even if you want to get rid of one later, it’ll leave a big scar in its place, and it’s not something you can ever erase, not really. And Arthur isn’t the type of person to do something in the first place that he changes his mind about easily later on anyway. It’s both frustrating and kind of admirable, because it was his resolution to make them wait that’s tortured Eames for so long, but each decision is a commitment almost—  
  
He can’t help it; he moves, rubs his head against the leather, moaning a little under his breath, and Arthur stops, touches him softly on his back and asks, “Eames?”   
  
It’s not pleasure, but it’s not  _just_ pain either, and with the needle gone, he’s free to press against the chair, to focus instead of on the burning across his back but on Arthur’s hand, which burns him in a completely different way. He leans into that touch—doesn’t get off the chair or let go of the handles because Arthur hasn’t given him permission to—but he can get closer, make the contact more solid, and Arthur sighs, not in a bad way, like he’s disappointed or something, but more accepting, like he understands Eames needs him, and that’s more important than anything else.  
  
Eames doesn’t know why he’s not talking, because he normally isn’t the type to stay quiet, always has an opinion even if no one cares to hear it. But it’s as if his mind is just blank, or maybe he can’t think of anything to say, because there’s nothing that needs to be said, doesn’t want to ruin the perfect—the perfect everything, really, because Arthur’s hands are gliding up and down his sides, and he’s so close, touching Eames like he means it, like he’s not going to walk away once it’s over. And then Arthur’s fingers brush lightly over the half-finished tattoo and he makes this satisfied sound, his other hand clenching around Eames’ side like he can’t help it, and Eames feels like he’s just breaking apart.  
  
It means he  _belongs_ to Arthur. He’s never—no one’s ever wanted Eames around like that before, but Arthur is—this is proof that Arthur  _does_ . He wouldn’t put his name on Eames like this if he didn’t mean it, and it’s like something just calms inside of him, everything settles because he know he’s Arthur’s now. And Arthur always takes care of his things.  
  
He kind of floats for a while, conscious of everything that’s happening, but kind of detached from it. Arthur stops for a bit every now and then and asks him something, and Eames answers, he thinks, must respond somehow since Arthur keeps going.   
  
It seems to last forever until Arthur lifts the gun away, but at the same time, Eames feels like he can take more and more, because  _this is for Arthur_ has shortened to just  _Arthur_ , over and over again, and it doesn’t matter that it hurts; he would do anything for this. 

 

##  [**skellerbvvt**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Feb. 1st, 2011 09:15 am (local)

### Rule Ten (Part Seventy Seven)

 

“So…how do you know Arthur?” Eames asks, after a stilted conversation, mostly bustled forward by Lydia, and Eames slowly started to relax as Lydia held a mini-conference on the mating habits of various strange creatures that, previous to said conversation, Maxwell hadn’t even heard of before. He was bad at small talk, and Eames had sort of grunted through his attempt of “so the weather here sure is caused by atmospheric changes.” Half the reason he’d taken his job—the other half, of course, being that he had needs and tied in with a marketable skill set—was because there was no small talk. Maybe if he was a Dom, sure, but usually people paid for his time because they knew what they wanted, they discussed what they wanted—what was allowed, what wasn’t, whether Maxwell was the best man for the job (he wasn’t always, and had no problem turning costumers over, because, well, better then being stuck in a scene you couldn’t fit into. He just couldn’t do age play. And that was fine, other people could and the best of luck to them.) and once everything was squared away, you were down to business.  
  
He’d had a lot of jobs previous to that, and he just couldn’t be friendly enough to customers, or he’d be perceived as overly friendly, which was generally not welcome from a man as big as he was, and he’d get fired. So right now he and his soup-bread-bowl were communing because the soup didn’t expect conversation. He liked that about soup.  
  
“Oh, me?” Maxwell looks up when Lydia leaves off her current explanation of how giraffes found out if the female giraffes were ovulating which wasn’t exactly lunch conversation. “I worked for him. In scenes. I mean. He hired me.”  
  
“So he’s a…what’s it called for a man? Not dominatrix. Leatherdaddy?”  
  
“Leatherdaddy is its own sort of…thing. Over there. I mean, at basic, you have a dom and a sub, which can also be, maybe was the D and the S stand for in BDSM if you want. Like, D/s and M/s, for Master/slave dynamics, but that’s it’s own sort of thing. Over there. Not. Basics. Basics you have two people, who are otherwise on equal footing—uh, consenting adults and…um.” He clears his throat. “And you have one who wants to be in charge of someone else, for whatever reason. Sometimes because they like the power it makes them feel, or because they’re just naturally the type of person to want to take control of situations, or because they like taking care of people. Arthur. He…he’s a very focused sort of person. He just piercing straight down on one topic until it’s done, before moving to the next. No spread or covering a wide variety of things, like, he buckles down and goes.”  
  
“Yeah. I know. I’ve seen him work. Like. When he’s working on something, he just fucking _goes_ , and it’s done. I don’t even know how he does it.”  
  
“Right? So, but then he has a hard time switching from one topic to another, like, he needs a system reboot, or whatever, because he’s stuck. So he needs something new to grab his attention and shake him out of it. So he comes to the Basement—that’s the club I work at, right? It’s in the basement of a restaurant, a nice one, you know, as sort of a cover business? Since we are, not, you know, _exclusive_ exclusive, but um.”  
  
“Picky.” Lydia fills in.  
  
“Right. So, he got invited because we heard good things about him, and anyways, no he comes when he just sort of needs a distraction, but, one that has to grab his attention, you know, mentally, physically, everything.”  
  
“So…he’s fucked you.”  
  
“No-fluid exchange policy in the Basement, if you and your long-standing partner want to kiss? Cool, but when it comes to hook-ups, or client-uh…not vendor.”  
  
“Professionals.” Lydia offers.  
  
“Right, Client-professional relationships, zero tolerance policy there. No kissing, no fucking, no pissing, blood, ejaculating, nothing. I mean, sweat there’s nothing you can do about, and you can spit on someone, but not in the face, but, no. And I mean, in Arthur’s case it’s not always sexual. And it can’t be for me, due to.” He nods to Lydia.  
  
“I told you I’m fine with it.” She says.  
  
“You’re also fine with how angular fish mate, and I think it’s a crime against all that’s right in the world, so. We aren’t doing that.” He clears his throat and Lydia shrugs at Eames like _what are you going to do?_

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Feb. 1st, 2011 09:16 am (local)

### Rule Ten (Part Seventy Eight)

 

“But it can involve fucking. I mean. I walked in on him and some guy, once. And they were.”  
  
“Well yeah, of course it can involve fucking. I just never have. So. Yeah, that’s how I know Arthur. Not well, he doesn’t come in much anymore, it used to be sort of a weekly thing for him, but it died down.”  
  
Eames looks down at his plate. “I guess because of me. I sort of. I’m there, right? And he invited me, and I didn’t really think about being a cockblock or whatever. But.”  
  
“And now he can’t because his head is all wrapped up in you.” Maxwell says and Eames looks up and a slow flush starts from his neck and works its way up, but he looks not…pleased. But sort of like he’s starving. Like he’s starving and Maxwell brought him his plate, or whatever. He’s staring and Maxwell shifts, because, well, dude. “I mean. He came out a while ago and he just. He doesn’t have problems focusing, but he was focusing on you, and then, he was fine, but he just dropped out of it and blew out of there like a…a…”  
  
“Tornado in a handbag?” Lydia tries and he shakes his head “Greyhound in the races? ”  
  
“Bat out of hell?” Eames goes and he shrugs, because none of those are quite right, but his point has been made.   
  
“How do you know Arthur?’ Maxwell asks in return, because, well, one minutes Arthur’s himself, then he vanishes for a few months, and comes back so off his game that he falls off the horse… or… wagon, not wagon, but. Yeah.  
  
“I met him at a party. His party, actually, for the head of departments and their aids. And I came, because my mum was going and at first it was just, you know, him wanting to make sure I was having a good time, or whatever, and then, I don’t know. He and I got to playing a Mario Kart tournament, because there was no one my age around, and like you said, he focuses. And my mum and the Pr…I mean. This guy she married? I don’t know. They forgot me there, and so Arthur drove me home and I guess he felt bad, or whatever, so gave me his number. In case I wanted to talk, right? Or. I don’t know, it just sort…went from there.”  
  
Eames had finished his sandwich and was sipping the coffee and clearly didn’t want to admit he liked it, but _did_ and Lydia was sort of smugly smiling to herself when he wasn’t looking, because, well. Job well done.   
  
“At first I know it was because he just felt bad for me. And I wasn’t going to call, I really wasn’t, except one night I was so pissed off I just, took off. From my house, and I was scrolling through my mobile for anyone’s house to crash at, and all the numbers were for back Home. Uh. England. and. I don’t fucking know. I called him, thinking he wouldn’t pick up, or would be surprised, or blow me off, or whatever, and then he was like. He got me dinner somewhere and we just. Talked, I guess. He’s a good guy, Arthur. And now I’m at his house and apparently fucking him over worse than I thought.”  
  
Eames drops his head between his hands. “Fuck.”  
  
“Yeah. Love does that.” Lydia says, chins perched on her fingers. “Fucks you up, drowns you, runs you ragged, squeezes the life out of you and leaves you out the dry. It’s sort of like a particularly violent laundry service, all told.”  
  
Eames sighs and looks up at Maxwell. “Tell me everything. About him. I need to.” He swallows and Maxwell doesn’t think the rest of the sentence is _know what I’m getting into_ and something more like _be that person_.  
  
“No, no, no, no.” Maxwell says. “I mean. I’ll tell you, sure, but dude. I’m pretty sure the reason the guy isn’t doing this himself is that you need to figure yourself out first.”  
  
“I know myself fine. I want to know him, okay?”  
  
“So nothing weird has happened to you, then? No responses that confused you or anything, because of something offhanded that he did? You just going to let that go?”  
  
“I’m _fine_ , okay? I just. Is it whipping, or tying people up or, what? Pissing on them, well. You can’t do that one, but what? What does he want?” Eames looks fierce, like something could snap in him, or, outside of him, or like. The dogs you see that are going fucking nuts over a squirrel and you know if they got their jaws in it, they’d tear it to pieces.

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Feb. 1st, 2011 10:31 am (local)

### Rule Ten (Part Seventy Nine)

  
  
“If you’re going to treat yourself like that, we’re going to to go.” Lydia says. “But when you want to talk about what  _you_ want and need, like you’re an individual who deserves it, you know our number.”  
  
“Just. I know. Okay? I know I’m a person. But I feel like.” Eames says and drops his head. “Yeah. Okay. I’ve got.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a ten and a five. “I guess this’ll cover it, right? Thanks for.”  
  
“What do you feel like?” Maxwell asks and Eames shakes his head and grabs his jacket from off the back of the chair.  
  
“Sorry for taking up your time.” He says as he stuffs his arms into the sleeves.  
  
“Eames, come on. We didn’t.” He grabs hi, by the shoulder and Eames spins around like he’s looking for a fight. “I know we don’t know you, but I do know what it’s like to be near Arthur when he’s like that. And you just want to be under his focus and have him notice you and you’re willing to do what you need to keep it. And it’s fine, but you. If you’re going to-“  
  
“It’s not that.” Eames bites out. “So fuck off and leave me alone, alright? I’ll. Just. I’m sorry I bothered you. I’m not you, I don’t care if you think you some fucking brilliant insights into my life, okay, but you don’t. I just. Fuck. He paid to…okay, not-fuck you, but me? He won’t even touch me outside of my birthday. So you don’t get to talk.” And he tears out of his grip and runs off and Maxwell lets him go.  
  
“This isn’t all about Arthur, Eames.” Maxwell tried, “I mean. It’s about him, a bit, yeah, but it’s mostly about you, so don’t. You can’t just… Lydia?”  
  
“Drown yourself in someone else.”  
  
“Listen, I can tell you, okay? I can tell you every single thing he ever asked from me, every single detailed list of things he wants, but dude, you’re going to have to help me out here.”  
  
Eames stops, and it’s clear he wants to tell them to fuck off, but more obvious that he needs the information Maxwell has. “What do you want in return? Money? What?”  
  
“No, just. You want to know about Arthur, fine. But you have to ask questions for yourself too, alright. Just. Not related to Arthur, but. For yourself.”  
  
“I’m fine. I told you.” Eames says. “I just.  _I_ want to give Arthur what he wants. That’s what I want, okay?”  
  
“And you’re fine with that?”  
  
“Why wouldn’t I be? I’m a, what? Sub? Makes sense to me.”  
  
“But you want things for yourself too. That’s how it works. You need to want things for yourself to. It’s a two way street.”  
  
“Arthur does things for me all the time.” Eames grits out. “That’s all he does, okay. That’s  _all he fucking does_ , so you can piss off, alright? Fine, whatever. Okay.” Eames breathes a moment, but clearly can’t keep control over his anger. “Whatever. Sorry for bothering you.” Eames walks off and Maxwell lets him go, because he doesn’t really have the right to stop him.  
  
“I stole his cell phone and got Arthur’s number.” Lydia says. “In case you wanted to call him and we can give him a piece of our mind? I gave it back this time.”  
  
He bends to kiss her on the hair. “I do love your criminal tendencies.”  
  
“You’re the one who vandalized the Woodbury watertower to ask me out on a date because it was outside my window. I’m just making sure the criminal element is equal, here.”  
  
He puts his head down on top of hers. “Did we stick our foot in it?”  
  
“Probably, yeah, but.” She looks down at the paper crane Maxwell finished, “he’ll come back. It’ll be a bit, but he will.”  
  
“And how do you know?”  
  
“You’re an in to Arthur he doesn’t have. He’s got his own sort of focus, he’s a bit like you, when you decide on something you think is best, I think. Or when you want something. So he’ll be back.”  
  
“He’s not me. Just because that’s what would be happening with me doesn’t mean it’s the same for him.”  
  
“No.” She agrees. “But I imagine you both attracted this Arthur fellow’s focus for long enough for him to notice for the same reasons. Persistence. You have to be persistent to get the attention of man who is involving himself elsewhere, right? And he wants to know. So he’ll be back.”  
  
Maxwell sighs. “Maybe we won’t fuck that time up as much.”  
  
“We’ll be working with more information. After we yank it out from Arthur, especially.”  
  
“Home?” He helps her up and she follows.

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Feb. 1st, 2011 12:20 pm (local)

## Rule Ten (Part Eighty)

 

I’m going to punch my sister’s ex-boyfriend’s mom in the brain. More Later.  
  
The day hadn’t started off…well. Arthur hadn’t been able to sleep, head buzzing, wanting to find Eames, wanting to  _finish what he started_ , but he  _can't_ , not properly.Arthur hates being helpless.  
  
And he did go and check on him, of course he did, because it would have been irresponsible not to. And Eames had been curled up in his bed, completely asleep and Arthur had only been able to sort of pointless tuck the sheets higher and then leave the room so he would just be standing there and staring at Eames sleep, because there were  _lines_ .  
  
And he still hadn’t been able to sleep, so he’d gone, and Eames dog was lying on her mat, staring at him when he entered the room. He sighed and sat down next to her. She put her head on his lap, but hadn’t gotten up. He’d put his hand on her head and she’d smiled into the petting, and Arthur leaned against the wall and stayed there, since he could, at least, give her what she needed at the moment.  
  
And then morning came and Eames had been on edge, like he hadn’t been for ages, jumpy and tense and staring at Arthur like he didn’t know where he stood now. Which was dumb, because nothing had changed. Yesterday was a reward, a good day, it didn’t mean that today would be a bad one. And Eames did smile at his dog when he came in, pouring her food and she got up and went to eat with a quick trot and he’d smiled sort of to himself.  
  
“How are you feeling?” Arthur had asked.  
  
“Fine.” Eames had said, eating with his bagel quickly, “I’ll take her for a walk after this. I need bags, right?”  
  
“Yeah, here.” Arthur said, taking out some plastic grocery bags and he tucked them into his jeans and waiting for his dog to wolf down her breakfast like she wanted to beat Eames in the  _who can get indigestion faster_ game.   
  
Eames doesn’t have anything after that and he gulps his milk down when he licks the dog and moves on to water. Arthur puts a hand on his shoulder and he jerks in place. “Eames, calm down. Everything is the same as it was.”  
  
Eames nods. “I know. I mean. Great. Good.” He stands up and hooks the lead to his dog’s collar. “You going or staying in, I can just let her back in. Hey, I was thinking I could make her a dog house?”  
  
“Eames, hold on.” Arthur says and doesn’t know what quite comes after that. “What’s wrong?”  
  
“Nothing. I’m fine. Just, you know, day after your birthday. Everything goes back to normal. It’s fine, I got the weekend ahead of me, I got a new dog, a new project. You wanted me to have projects, and now I have one. So, dog house in the back yard, you okay with that?”  
  
“Of course I am.” Arthur says.  
  
Eames nods. “We can go to the hardware store, later, yeah?”  
  
“Sure.” Arthur says and Eames smiles, an actual one, and Arthur’s stomach twists and Eames lets himself out. He’s got a headache at the base of his head and grabbed another cup of coffee to make the gritty feeling in his eyes calm down, because he’s not going to get back to sleep today.  
  
And the noises he’d made when he just had to lie there and let Arthur kiss him, those were just cycling through Arthur’s head like a demented Top 40 and there’s that picture. Fuck.  
  
It’s sort of like seeing how Eames sees him. A bit bigger than life, and all the parts that were sort of jumbled and twisted together and Arthur doesn’t even know what to make of the contrast—the careful attention to detail on his feet, versus the angry slashing lines of his arms, the careful, heavy lines of his shoulders, and the almost smoothing detail around his neck. It’s…complex and Arthur feels uncomfortable looking at it, like he’s seeing someone different than himself, someone bigger and stronger and vengeful and…and he can’t look at that and see anything but love on behalf of the artist. The way the shading on the neck is carefully, dutifully measured, and the elegance he’s put into Arthur’s feet—which are,  _just_ feet—the strength in his shoulders and Arthur doesn’t even know what to say.

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Feb. 2nd, 2011 10:10 am (local)

### Rule Ten (Part Eighty One)

I just realized we've passed Maillard Reaction by twenty parts now. I'm gonna go cry for awhile in the shower. Or, you know. Gloat?  
  
He gets a call around lunchtime and he answers without checking who it is, because it's probably Eames, and maybe Eames is finally ready to talk. Or yell at him. Or the walk finally calmed him down some so...something. Arthur doesn't know. he just lives there.  
  
"So Hi, how are you doing? We're fine, had an interesting visit with your not-boyfriend. Little brother figure? Protege? Pet project? And you know what would have been  _awesome_ , some warning. Some warning would have been  _great_ , because as is Maxwell woke up with some British kid being told he needed to talk to him and then us sort of flailing around for awhile and sticking our foot in it, and dear fucking  _Lord_ that boy wants your attention. And I know attentions. Maxwell asked me out via watertower graffiti and every so often shoves my book out of my hands like a giant muscular cat."  
  
Arthur takes a moment, then looks at the call scene, then holds the phone back to his ear.  
  
"I'm well. And you're...Lydia?"  
  
"Yes. Isn't it great to have to figure out what's going on with very little evidence? It's just  _so great_ ."  
  
"Go easy on him." Maxwell mutters in the background and Lydia shouts "Frozen peas!" back and Arthur wonders if she also has that activity book.  
  
"SO Eames did call."  
  
"He did! And we had no idea who he was or what to do. So that went well, as you can imagine."  
  
Arthur frowns and goes back to making lunch. "I left a message on Maxwell's phone. Actually, several messages. One before I gave him his card, and the others says what was going on. It was a bit forward of me to assume he'd help, save for the part where Maxwell has actually left in the middle of work to go save some kittens."  
  
There's a pause and a brief whispered discussion, muffled by the receiver being covered and Arthur waits.  
  
"We're not done yelling at you, so don't turn off your phone."  
  
"Okay." He agrees and puts the phone back in his pocket as the call gets disconnected and then proceeds to worry. He did leave messages, but he shouldn't have assumed Maxwell got them. But, then, if his phone were broken then Eames calling the number wouldn't have worked and it would have been fine. But he should have made sure to get a callback first.   
  
The phone rang and he picked up.  
  
"So Maxwell doesn't understand his phone mail system and had 76 messages he hadn't looked at." There was pause. "We're slightly sorry for yelling at you, but for future reference, Maxwell is bad with phones."  
  
"Noted. I take it the talk with Eames did not go well since you had absolutely no background information."  
  
"You could say that." She sighs and Arthur sits down.   
  
"How badly did it go, exactly?"  
  
"Well. Not as bad as it could have gone, but. Jesus. He's like the Colorado River banging at the gates of the thing the Grand Canyon was before it was a canyon. Or wearing it down. Or however that worked. How are you dealing with that, exactly?"  
  
Arthur rubs his forehead. "Not...as well as I'd like. He doesn't know anything about the scene, he's young, he's never had an adult relationship before-and here I mean emotionally complex, not necessarily sexual-he doesn't even have any friends in the States because he didn't  _want_ any. But he's..."  
  
"So your type it's like aliens cloned him?" Maxwell asks and Lydia hums and there's a silent exchange Arthur isn't privvy to, but yes. Basically. "It's not even just that. I mean. You met him, you know, it's just. Frustrating."  
  
"Where are the hell are his parents during all this?"  
  
"Uninterested." Arthur says, shortly, because he still doesn't understand, and he doesn't think he ever will. He knows not every family is as good as his was, or as bad as they make them on television, but to just... _not notice_ Eames seems...he doesn't understand.   
  
Arthur hears keys in the lock. "Sorry, I think he's back."  
  
"Arthur, hold on, he's going to be-" But Arthur hangs up, because Eames opens the door and steps inside, letting his dog shake her paws off and go to make sure her mat and everything is where she left it.

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Feb. 2nd, 2011 10:22 am (local)

### Rule Ten (Part Eighty Two)

Fanfanart:  [ Maxwell WIP ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/71150.html?thread=3127022#t3127022) by  [ **aura55** ](http://aura55.livejournal.com/) ,  [ What Have I Told You About Stretching Before Training ](http://noah-shiro.livejournal.com/14194.html) by  [ **noah_shiro** ](http://noah-shiro.livejournal.com/) . And Fanfanfic:  [ Dream!Tattoos ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/71150.html?thread=3101934#t3101934) by  [ **blue_jack** ](http://blue-jack.livejournal.com/) AND OTHER THINGS I'M DISORGANIZED DID I LINK TO ALL THE OTHER THINGS ALREADY? IDKIDKIDK  
  
Eames closes the door behind him and takes off his shoes. The dog comes to check Arthur is somewhere where she left him, and the same person, and then she follows Eames as he goes to get her a treat.   
  
"So." Eames says, gripping the counter. "You lied to me. You do  _delegate_ important tasks."  
  
"Eames-"  
  
Eames looks up and his eyes could murder, they really could and Arthur isn't afraid, well, not for himself, but afraid, somewhat, of what Eames might do to himself. That has always been the biggest risk in dealing with Eames, that he'll go off and do something incredibility stupid and teenage and Arthur will end up reading about him in the middle of the local paper-not even front page-and that would be the end of it. It's a stupid worry, but someone needs to have it, and Arthur does things that need doing.  
  
"It's not like I don't fucking  _know_ we're...whatever. Different. And not just because of the age shit. I may not know all the details, but you know who should be filling that in?  _You_ , not your ex-boyfriend...whore...thing."  
  
"He's not a whore, Eames, and I-"  
  
"Shut up." Eames grits. "Just fucking...fucking  _shut up_ okay, because I want to be mad at you, and then you talk and your reasonable and caring and I  _want to be mad at you_ you stupid fucking..." He breathes like he's spitting the air out and his fists tense next to his thighs. "Just fucking. You think you can just wait forever and I'll magically become this adult who you won't feel guilty fucking? You can just keep shoving enough other things at me and I'll just, what,  _forget_ it's you I want?"  
  
"No, that's not."  
  
"Shut up, you aren't in charge. You could be, You could be in charge, but you won't be so you  _aren't_ ." Eames moves closer. "I know. I know you have rules and boundaries and whatever, but I'm trying, Arthur, but I can't do it when all I can fucking  _think_ about is-" He pants and his fists seize as he rolls them against his forehead. "I'm  _trying_ , but I just. I can't do it."  
  
"Eames you're scaring your dog." Arthur says and Eames jerks to a halt and turns and sees she's crawled into her carrier. So he breathes Arthur nods upstairs and Eames and he go up to Arthur's room, which is the farthest from the living room.  
  
"So why did you send me to him, huh? If it's top be a good little...sub...then I should learn tat from you, don't you think?"  
  
"No, God, Eames, no it wasn't-"  
  
"I want you. I want you and I can't  _ever have you_ and then you fucking  _taunt_ me with it, and I go along because, fuck, better have what you can while you can than nothing at all, but fuck it. Arthur you can't do this to me." He grabs him by the shirt and Arthur doesn't even think, he never does, when it comes down to it, he may say he does, but when it gets like this, all adrenaline and yelling and contact, he  _doesn't think_ , too many years with his brothers, too many years of martial arts and self-defense, too many years in the scene, and Eames grabs him and he moves to disable and pin. He doesn't...he doesn't mean to, but Eames his on the floor, cheek against the carpet and Arthur has him in a hold.  
  
Eames rocks him off, because he isn't committed to it, because the second he realizes what he's doing and he's across the room and Eames is practically feral, on the ground.  
  
"That, do you even  _get it_ do you realize you're doing this? One minute you're a distant, responsible-stick-up-your-arse prat, and the next you have this...voice and you're...your looking at me, and... I can't do this. I can do this, actually, I say I can't, but if you leave me here I'll just keep fucking coming back until you change all the damn locks and then I'll just. I'll just." Eames stands. 

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Feb. 2nd, 2011 10:53 am (local)

### Rule Ten (Part Eighty Three)

 

"And how is that responsible, huh? How is that  _fixing_ me, because fuck. Arthur. I just. You can't  _do this_ , except I'm just going to keep letting you and I'll make friends, fine, but I'm going to ignore them all the second I have you, because my goal? My self-directed goal you want me to have so fucking badly isn't drawing, it's just."  
  
Arthur keeps out of Eames reach, because he doesn't trust himself, he can't trust himself, except Eames just looks wild-eyed and there aren't any good choices here. He made the wrong choice ages ago, and now he's paying for it.  
  
"Explain it to me.  _You_ explain it to me. Why you make me feel like. Fuck. I don't. Why. Just." Eames tears through his hair. "You explain it, because I don't care perspective, I don't care, I  _don't even fucking care_ , I just." His jaw works. "I have one. One... _good_ thing, here. One good thing, and just. Arthur." He peters out and closes his eyes and slumps against the wall. "You don't get to pass me off to someone else. I'm just going to keep coming back here until you move, or change the locks, and then, yeah. maybe I'll take the  _hint_ , but you don't get to make me someone else's problem."  
  
Arthur is on the other side of the room and he's not a good man. He's really not. Not for anyone else but Eames, he doesn't really try for anyone else. He's a corporate man, and not one of those ones on sitcoms who stills has a heart of gold and glowing principles despite the pressure of big business. He's not that sort of person. He does what he needs to to find out what the company needs to know and regrets nothing. But he's been trying, because he is not the type of man to take a messed up sixteen year old and shape them into his perfect, biddable submissive. He knew he wasn't that.  
  
No. He's just the type of man to take a messed up sixteen-year old and give him the hot-cold treatment until he had something like a breakdown because he  _doesn't know how to do this_ . And Eames is complicated. He's complicated and he's got...all these parts of Arthur in his head, and it's a wonder he hasn't done something like this before.  
  
Eames wipes his mouth and stands. "Fucking telly making me think that would make me feel better. You going to kick me out?"  
  
"No." Arthur says. He should, maybe, take the colossal fall-out now over the more insidious infrastructural damage that's going to take out far more, but he's Arthur. He sticks to things until they kill him. He can't see something that needs doing and not do it. Even if it should be done by someone else, anyone else, because no one else is going to do this.  
  
Eames nods and won't look at him. "Just. Don't do that again. You want to tell me something, fucking...do it yourself."  
  
"I think, at least around me, you lean more towards being sexually submissive and that because I identify as dominant, and am an experienced one, you're responding to some of my cues and tricks more than you would otherwise, and that might be confusing you."  
  
"I'm not confused." And Eames is up like a live wire, spitting into the air. "I'm not some idiot wandering around needing you to save me, okay? Yeah, fine, I'm younger than you."  
  
"By  _nine years_ ," Arthur says, "You're nine years younger than me, you have less legal power than I do, you have no source of your own income except for what your guardians give you. I'm your support structure, I'm the person you turn to with your problems and your victories and I don't mind doing that for you, that isn't the problem. The problem is that you don't seem to see why I am uncomfortable jumping into a relationship where all I would have is  _more_ power over you."  
  
"You don't decide what I do." Eames says, chin lifting and Arthur begins to interrupt, because even if he doesn't do it on purpose, he sort of  _does_ . "You think you do, because, yeah, alright, fine. Yes I will just keep coming back here even...even if you didn't really want me to, but I  _decide_ to do that. You aren't making me, no one is  _making_ me. Fuck, I could. I could leave if I wanted. If you tell me an order  _I_ decide to follow it,  _me_ , you've never even threatened to throw me out, or anything, for the Rules. I just do them, right?"

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Feb. 2nd, 2011 11:14 am (local)

### Rule Ten (Part Eighty Four)

 

"That isn't the same."  
  
"How the  _fuck_ isn't it the same? You want me to stand up to you, this is me, standing up to you." Eames pushes off the wall and moves closer and Arthur should back away, but he isn't the kid, so he pushes forward and if this was an acting class they'd be in what is called the kiss-me-kill-me space, so close they could touch but neither of them are, because Arthur has no idea which one they'd do.  
  
Eames isn't crying, he isn't the kind, but he looks so angry that it's like he's shoveling every inch of all his other feelings into anger. He's shaking, but he's not throwing any punches, and Arthur doesn't think he'd have the same kind of restraint at Eames age.   
  
"I made my guidelines clear."  
  
"And then you  _shoved me off_ or your ex-boytoy or whatever the fuck he wants to be called. You're the one who keeps changing the game here, Arthur. You're the one who talked to me, you're the one who invited me here. You're the one who set up the rules, you're the one who talked to my mum, you're the one who decided he needed to shove me out into the world at any fucking cost, you're the one who...who..." Eames has his teeth gritted and it's like he can't get anymore worlds out and he shoves at Arthur and Arthur grabs Eames out of reflex and spins them, off balance and stumbling against the wall.  
  
"You're the one whose making it fucking impossible for me to." Eames pants, "I just want you. I don't want drawing classes, or friends, or whatever the fuck, I just. I. Fuck you." Eames is strong and he isn't trying to hit, he's suddenly just trying to get away and Arthur can't. if Eames goes out like this. He can't. All he can see is that funeral, that picture of himself in a suit and Eames in a coffin and him being there with Eames guardians and them not even understanding why he was there and he would...he doesn't.  
  
He realizes, at the same time that it's irrational, completely so, but it's the  _only thing he can think of_ and so he wrestles Eames to the ground like he means it and Eames is strong, yes, stronger than Arthur, easily, but it's untrained and untamed and panicked and it boils down to hands and arms and legs and interception of attack until Eames grabs him by the hair and instead of getting away he's moving in and they're kissing.  
  
And it's not kissing. No director in the world would take the shot of what they're doing and print it for the posters. And Eames hasn't gone limp under him, he's still shoving and grabbing and Arthur is still trying to just...just  _keep_ him somewhere so he can just talk  _sense_ into him, but this is better, this is direct and physical and he understands physical right now. Eames needs to stay here until he calms down, he needs Eames to calm down, he can't...he can't  _think_ like this.  
  
It's sort of another way of fighting, but not, dueling tongues or clashing teeth, more like Arthur is trying to soothe and Eames isn't having it, he wants Arthur angry, he wants...and Arthur realizes that he's pinned Eames to the floor and is kissing him breathless and he rears back and Eames is staring up at him, flushed and glittering and Arthur gets up, scrambles away and Eames lies there, panting and then pushes himself up.  
  
"Do not fucking even tell me about how much power you have over me." Eames says getting to his feet, "as I figure it you want me on more even ground with you? You can either dangle the carrot above my head and hope I jump through enough hoops to get it, or you can be what pushes me up there." Eames wipes his mouth on the back of his hand.   
  
Arthur has nothing and Eames stands there and digs a hand through his hair again.   
  
"That's..." Eames sighs, "that's all I had. So. I'll just." He fidgets and then he's moving for the door.  
  
"Eames," Arthur says, tired and brain short-circuited and he doesn't know what he's doing anymore-if he ever did-but just...he's trying. He's just trying. "When you're ready to talk, I'll answer your questions."  
  
Eames fidgets at the door and then nods and closes it behind him.

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Feb. 2nd, 2011 12:10 pm (local)

### Rule Ten (Part Eighty Five)

 

Extra post because I forgot to put up my MOAR TOMORROW icon on the last one. We must all obey the icon. MOAR TOMORROW. Unless I die in this ice storm.  
  
Eames feels like he isn't half near done, but he's out of words and he doesn't have anything to punch, and he can't...he's jittery and he wants to go back into there and press his face to Arthur's stomach and apologize and he wants to storm out and not come out until Arthur is worried half to death, just to see if he  _would_ be, and he wants to crawl into his, yes, fuck it, tonight it's  _his_ bed and wait until the anger cools off and leaves him empty and gaping and regretful and he  _doesn't know_   
  
He comes to the bottom of the stairs and there's his dog, hiding in her kennel, and there's the regret, like a cold punch of water to his senses, and he moves closer. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, it wasn't about you." And this is dumb, but he goes to get treats and he sits on the mat and if Arthur comes out they can just pretend nothing happened for a little bit, until they settle, until things just...settle, in his belly, because right now he's all kinds of snowglobes and that isn't helping anyone.  
  
She does come out, eventually, and snuffs up the treats and smiles at him like nothing is wrong at all and he leads her to his room, and she still doesn't know what to do with stairs, so he just picks her up, and she whines to get down once they're at the top. Arthur's door is still closed and he resolutely ignores it for his dog. When he gets to his room he closes the door and she sniffs around the socks and shoes on the ground. She whines when he tries to get her on the bed, so he just picks her up and she looks around and smiles at him, tail wagging and when he lies down she flops on top of his chest, and this is good, this is exactly what he needs.  
  
"You're a good girl, you didn't do anything wrong. Not a thing, you're too marvelous, aren't you? And you did good staying where I put you to go talk to the ex-boy-whore or whatever, I could see you the entire time, and you were such a good girl." He murmurs and her tail slaps against the bed and petting her is soothing, the textures are distracting and he doesn't have to think about what it was like, being pressed under Arthur, of Arthur struggling to get him to stay, eyes wide with panic and fuck if Eames knows what Arthur was thinking, but Arthur does want him to stay. That's something, right?  
  
"He's just. It's dumb, right? You think it's dumb, too, right?" She smiles and he takes that for agreement. "This is his fault. It is. It's  _his_ fault, and he acts like I need to earn it. And you tell me, how is getting involved with him anymore responsibility then taking care of you, huh?" He finds a bit behind her ears that makes her go all drowsy eyed and she twists until her head is his his shoulder her breath right in his face, and he turns away because it smells terrible, cold against his cheek, but he's fine with it, because she, at least, is there.  
  
"I'll get it eventually, it's fine. Don't need to worry about it all." He says, because she'll believe anything he says, and someone needs to. He doesn't care if Arthur is this centered, even-healed demi-God, or some fucked up pervert with a seventeen-year-old fuck toy fantasy, or whatever the hell he's found in the middle of there, but Eames wants him, and it's not like he thinks Arthur is this perfect creature he doesn't deserve or anything. He's not that bad. He just. He wants Arthur and he doesn't understand why that's hard.  
  
"I'll figure this out, and then I can live here with you. I know you probably don't care yet, but maybe you will, eventually, right?"  
  
She presses her cold nose to under his chin and he sighs and decides to nap the rest of his mood off, because nothing else seems productive, and he doesn't want to deal with anyone outside of his room, so why leave?  
  
He hears Arthur shuffle around, leave his room, but he passes Eames door without pausing and so Eames rolls onto his side and presses his face into his dog's soft fur and lets the world be, for awhile.

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Feb. 3rd, 2011 11:26 am (local)

### Rule Ten (Part Eighty Six)

MOAR TOMORROW. DAMN YOU WORK.  
  
Arthur knocks on the door and Eames jerks awake, his dog barking awake next to him at the door. Eames flails upwards and gets up, looking around. "What?"  
  
"Eames, there's...dinner." Arthur says. "And if you're ready to talk, we can talk."  
  
Eames gets up and opens the door, his dog standing on the bed and barking at Arthur like she's surprised to see him there. Arthur looks exhausted, but he's put back together again. Like he and Eames never fought and Eames feels like they did, still, sort of. Like. He doesn't know, like there's still these angry hard lumps in his stomach and he can't get over it because he's still mad, and achy and his skin itches being pulled so tight and so small.  
  
Eames looks at the floor and grinds his teeth, because it's not like yelling changes anything. Arthur still has his guidelines and his rules and that isn't going to change, and Eames is still going to want him and now they're just going to talk about feelings or whatever. And he shouldn't have gotten so mad, because it was dumb, it wasn't like Arthur fucking owed him anything. It wasn't Arthur who was desperate, or anything.   
  
Eames sighed and leans against the door jam. "Hey."  
  
"You feeling better?" Arthur asks, and Eames just shrugs, because there's nothing really to say.  
  
"Listen. I'm not going to budge on the guidelines for us getting into a relationship." Arthur sighs. "I made those clear and I'm not changing it. However."   
  
"No, Arthur. It's fine." Eames shrugs. "I just. You need to stop talking to people about me, and then sending me to talk to them, instead of  _to_ me. Except when you don't talk to me about them and they have no idea what's going on, because that doesn't fucking help anyone." He scratches at his neck, he needs to shave and he turns back to his dog and lets her down from the bed. She squeezed past Arthur and jingled down the hall.  
  
"Eames come here." Arthur says and Eames shakes his head and steps back and Arthur leans against the door. "When I think about it the two things that I won't do is scene and sex. Understand?"  
  
Eames nods. "No, it's fine, I get it. I got it the first time. I'm not..." Eames digs his hand through his hair. "I just."  
  
"It's the rest of it, right?" Arthur stays on his side of the door. Arthur bends his head and breathes through it. "Get your notepad out."  
  
Eames fumbles into his trousers and hands it over, the sides well-care worn and he rubs his thumb down the sides and hands it over quickly before he can change his mind. He shoves his hands into his pockets and looks over at the wall.  
  
"There. Updated." Arthur says and Eames takes it and rubs his thumb over the cover. "Just. Come out when you're hungry."  
  
Eames nods and then sits down on the bed. His dog comes back in after a moment, clearly done exploring and barks at him like she didn't believe she'd ever find him again.  
  
He moves to sit down next to the door and she shoves her nose into his neck and smiles into his chest, tail thumping against the doorjamb.  
  
All the rules are there now, all in Arthur's careful, exacting script, measured, like every single letter is precisely where he wants it, and Eames just takes a moment to enjoy them before looking down the list and seeing the new one, placed at the bottom. The inevitable rule ten, seeing after Arthur loved lists with nice, easy, round numbers.  
  
" **Rule Ten:** " it said at the bottom. "If you need something from me, I will give it to you."

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Feb. 4th, 2011 08:18 am (local)

### Rule Ten (Part Eighty Seven)

If this were a normal story the first multi-chaptered bit would have ended there and this would be a new story. As is, we're just going to keep going.   
  
Eames has to pick his dog up as they go down the stairs, and he thinks that maybe she sort of looks around like the world is startling new place and she must explore it, writhing to get out of his arms. Which she does, which makes sense, as he's only had her the one day. Arthur is pulling the lasagna out of the oven, which is a blatant bid for Eames even temper, since he fucking loves the frozen oven-baked lasagna. He knows it's not fancy, like he used to think it was, that, technically, the stuff Arthur makes homemade is better. But that's like hommemade waffles are better than Eggos, but there's only one of those he's eating an entire package in one sitting.  
  
Arthur looks up when Eames stands on the threshold of the kitchen, then returns to cutting the lasagna and serving it up onto the plates, already filled with garlic bread and cauliflower with the orange pepper...sauce...stuff, and before Arthur he wouldn't have eaten anything orange on cauliflower  _ever_ (or, well, cauliflower at all. Ever. No.) And Eames thinks about just taking a plate and sitting down and having three bowls of ice cream for dessert and the starting on his homework before having his nightly workout and letting everything just be fine for awhile, because sometimes things just needed to be  _fine_ for awhile. Not good or bad or wonderful or fucking horrible, but just  _fine_ .  
  
"What do you mean?" Eames says, instead, because he's a fucking moron.  
  
Arthur braces himself on the counter and looks down at the food. "First of all, are we clear on what I said earlier?"  
  
"You won't fuck me. Yeah. I know."  
  
"No, Eames. I will not scene with you. I can have scenes without sex, but I haven't." Arthur pauses. "I don't do sex without the dynamic. It doesn't work for me. Some people can, for some people they're basically mutually exclusive needs, but I just. I wouldn't be able to. Especially not with you."  
  
Eames considers this. "If you weren't a...dom...then you'd fuck me already."  
  
Arthur looks toward the far wall elbows locked as he thinks and then he just drops his head and sighs like he can just shove this conversation out of his lungs. "Probably."  
  
Eames considers this and Arthur lets him. On one hands, he'd get to be fucking Arthur, which has more benefits then he can handle, at the moment, and he could touch without worrying and he could sleep in Arthur's bed, and he wouldn't have this dripping terrible leak in his head that constantly worried if he should even  _be_ here, because then, at least, you know. Older men and their fucktoys Whatever. Made sense. Mentor and protege made sense. Whatever the fuck they were now made no goddamn sense.  
  
But on the other hand Arthur wouldn't be  _this_ Arthur and Eames doesn't know if he wants that. Not right now. Not the way he is. He wants a bossy, ridiculous, intense Arthur. He wants, he thinks, to earn this. He just wants to have earned it  _already_ , and he wants things to stop. For Arthur to stop. For Arthur to just let him fucking figure this out and not...keep sending every signal he can figure out to send and mix and fuck with Eames head.  
  
"Okay." Eames says. "So what does it mean?"  
  
Arthur turns and looks at him, then moves closer, slips his hands around Eames neck. Eames jerks in place and they're hot, Right against his pulse, and Arthur is looking at him and Eames doesn't move because something might go wrong and he'll fuck it up and he can't take another morning like this morning. He can't. He can't wake up and know that Arthur is going to be on the other end of the couch, and he can't wake up and know he's a fucking pathetic twat for getting that upset over the length of the couch, and feeling worse because he this was all just so dumb and he just wants to be able to want Arthur without feeling like a dumb as fuck pining Baronic hero. Heroine. Both. Either.  
  
"Human contact." Arthur says, stroking down Eames jaw. "You need that, and if you need it from me, you'll ask for it. No excuse no exceptions. If you need it, you will ask for it." He doesn't take his hands away and Eames just stands there.  
  
"I'm not-"

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Feb. 4th, 2011 09:09 am (local)

### Rule Ten (Part Eighty Eight)

Or maybe after these parts I'd end it. Hmmmm.  
  
"You need it. You ask for it. I give it to you. This is how it's going to work. You need someone to touch you, you need  _me_ to touch you, I will." Arthur stroked his thumb down Eames throat and draws him closer and Eames goes, because he's not...he just. It's easy. Everything is easy.  
  
"Affection." Arthur says and presses his lips right at the corner of Eames', not enough so they're kissing, but close. Kissing-cousins close to kissing. And Arthur rests their foreheads together. "You need affection, no, Eames. You  _need_ it, you ask for it, and I'll give it to you."  
  
"I'm not some...whiny..."  
  
"You need it. You ask for it. I give it to you." Arthur says. "You will need it. You will ask for it. You will receive it." He pulls him into a hug and Eames stands there awkwardly until he wraps his arms back and then starts squeezing back, shoving his face into Arthur's shirt and inhales and Arthur rubs his back. "Affection. You need it. I give it to you."  
  
"Do I always have to ask?" Eames checks.  
  
Arthur pauses and drops his head to Eames' shoulder. "If I were a good man I wouldn't make you. I'd just give it to you, but I'm a terrible person and I want to hear you ask. Does that work for you, Eames?"  
  
Eames shivers and Arthur inhales sharply, but doesn't pull away. Neither of them pull away. "What else?"  
  
"Food. Shelter. Transportation. Clothing. Rules. Guidelines. A place that always open to you, a place to exercise, to sleep, to crash, to bathe, to think, to work, to draw. And me."   
  
"And what are you offering Arthur?" Eames asks.   
  
"I will not scene with you." Arthur says. "And anything sexual will turn into a scene, so don't push me. Eames, do you understand. You do not push me on this. That is the limit."  
  
"So...everything else?" Eames pushes back and Arthur lets him go, but not quite, hands still around his hips and Eames stares at them, because he can't...they're right the fuck...and Arthur hasn't said a word about how Eames could probably fuck through a brick wall (well, get half-way and go off. Okay that was a terrible analogy.)  
  
"You ask for it." Arthur says and then steps back and goes back to serving up food. Eames watches him and Arthur puts the food down on the table.  
  
"Kiss me." Eames says and Arthur swings around and grabs him by the shirt collar and and stops just a half fucking inch away and Eames doesn't move, because he wants Arthur to kiss him.  
  
"You have," Arthur says slowly, looking at him, "To  _ask_ ."  
  
"And how isn't this a scene?" Eames asks. "You're giving orders are you want me to follow them and if I do I get rewarded, and if I don't."  
  
"I don't punish you." Arthur says  
  
"You don't give me what I want." Eames retorts, lifting his chin and Arthur keeps staring, grips in his shirt collar and then and lets go.   
  
"I will always give you want you need, Eames," Arthur says, "But you're a teenager. You don't know what you need half the time, and I'm not going to guess for you, and you need to learn to communicate  _before_ you explode."  
  
"And you need to tell me when you are going to dump me on a new bunch of friends." Eames says. 

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Feb. 4th, 2011 11:31 am (local)

### Rule Ten (Part Eighty Nine)

I miss my crazy off topic subject headings. MOAR TOMORROW  
  
"Okay, yeah, sure, it's all of that, yeah, but don't think I don't know." Eames wraps his hands around the back of the chair. "That's what you're getting out of this, isn't it?"  
  
Arthur sits down and picks up his fork and looks up at Eames. "Yes." He says, and its honest, you can  _see_ it, you can  _see_ that is honest and Eames grips the back of his chair and looks down at the food.   
  
Eames wipes his mouth and looks at his plate and his stomach gurgles and Arthur raises an eyebrow. "Arthur?"  
  
"Yes, Eames?" And he's sitting there, cool as fucking anything and Eames swallows and moves closer and Arthur looks up at him and Eames places a hand on the table and the other on the back of the chair. "Arthur?"  
  
"That is my name." Arthur says and Eames bends down and before he realizes it he's crouching down, and from there it's just the easiest thing in the world, isn't it? Simplest thing in the entire fucking universe to get on his knees, and it doesn't even require him to think and he's just there, and that's the fucking ticket, because Arthur just snaps to fucking attention like some kind of superhero or whatever and Eames just stays down there, because just fucking  _look_ at Arthur.   
  
"Eames." Arthur says, slowly and Eames drops his hands, and he doesn't know what he would do, from here, if he and Arthur were...used...to this shit, and fuck, he's going to find out, someday, eventually, Arthur isn't going to have a single damn excuse and Eames is going to make up for lost time like they're dying from it, but now?  
  
Just fucking  _look_ at him. He can't even take it, and Eames feels warm in his stomach, his chest, just...warm and tingling, because this is what he's wanted to feel, this, this  _right here_ is what he's been trying to drag out of Arthur and only gotten in tiny little shards, like someone took a running leap through Ariadne's tattoo.   
  
Eames feels  _wanted_ .  
  
"Please," He says and the words feels like it has power, it drops out of his mouth and Arthur's hands clench and Eames doubts he's breathing and his eyes are on Eames like....fucking...like he  _can't_ ...like he's looking at Eames like Eames looks at him sometimes, like he can't look away and he's never going to. "Kiss me?"  
  
Arthur lifts his hand and takes Eames chin and kisses him, not, quite, like he means it, but...maybe like he would like to and Eames lets him pull away and just stares back.  
  
"You're going to fucking kill me." Arthur says, and his voice doesn't crack, and he doesn't look wrecked, he just says it with every ounce of sincerity that Eames has never heard before. "You know that? One of these days, you're going to kill me."  
  
"And one of these days," Eames smiles, "You're going to keep me down here where I belong."  
  
But until then, they have lasagna.

  
  


[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Feb. 5th, 2011 08:55 am (local)

## Rule Ten (Part Ninety)

New thread! Just because. And Cheetos!  
  
Ariadne was the only person who looked at his drawing during workshop like it meant anything. Everyone else had comments like "maybe you should work on your eyelines" or "work more with negative space" or "try working with proportions" which was just regurgitated parroted garbage and Eames ignored it all, because who the fuck cares about people reciting jargon that doesn't even have a damn  _meaning_ . Illustrative his arse.  
  
"It's complicated." She said, "Like you built a maze out of a person. My eyes just sort of keep jolting from one dead end to the next and I get sort of lost in it."  
  
Eames had liked that comment. Not because it was praise, necessarily, but because it was honest, and if someone could have just said that damn thing sucked, then at least that would have been honest too.  
  
Ariadne's drawings were mostly focused buildings. She had a picture of her roommate, sure, but the roommate was a sketch compared to the view outside the window, which was rendered better than the cardboard boxes Eames would have substituted. Eames liked building people far more than building things, but he liked Ariadne's buildings. They had personality. Light lines for playful building, heavy strokes for squat, unhappy, bachelor pads, until the skyline didn't quite blend away, but had distinctive parts and plots and gears that took you from one spot to the next like a lazy sort of sightseeing.  
  
"But the  _person_ ." One lady said. The needle-fear lady. "You should focus on the  _person_ , otherwise the background takes over the picture."  
  
"That's the point though, isn't it? That the background is the more important thing?" Eames says, gesturing. "I mean, clearly she did that on purpose, so maybe we should focus on  _why_ she did it on purpose instead of noticing that it happened."  
  
"Okay Eames," The teacher says in what might have been a soothing voice, if a soothing voice was made of a cheese grater hawk smoker firetruck siren motorcycle harpy. "What do  _you_ see?"  
  
Eames shoves his hands in his pockets so he doesn't storm out, because, fuck, way to be condescending. "I see someone whose interested in buildings, so the buildings draw the eye. And they're good, they're not just. Like. Fruit in a bowl. Or whatever. They're like...real." Fuck he sounds dumb. He doesn't want to be Holden Caulfield, or whatever, he doesn't care how much Arthur likes that book, the kid's a wanker. Not that his internal monologue is all that a blowjob either, but at least he doesn't sound like a fucking five year old.  
  
"Well, that was good. Anyone else?" She turns and Eames tries not to look at Ariadne, but she punches him in the arm when everyone goes to the next drawing.  
  
"You want to skip the rest of this and stop pretending we know what we're talking about?"  
  
Eames nods and she grabs her bag by the door and he just goes, because, you know, making friends usually requires being angry about something together.   
  
They end up in a coffee shop near campus that sells pots of tea for 1.25 and they order one and split it and at least she doesn't expect him to understand all the flavors of the tea or whatever, because dude, he drank his tea with milk and sugar and lemon when the mood hits, he's not, like, one of those cartoon wine connoisseurs or whatever.   
  
"-and she couldn't even explain what it meant, it was just this complete word salad, and I just wanted to scream  _Use Your Grown Up Words_ . at her until sense came out." Ariadne said, relaxing into her cushy chair. Eames like this place, he didn't feel like the staff was staring at him to leave just because he sat down, or like everything was oppressively Welcoming and Inviting. 

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Feb. 5th, 2011 09:06 am (local)

### Rule Ten (Part Ninety One)

All the Cheetos for me. ALL OF THEM.  
  
"Or, when she tells you to draw something, and then takes issue when you  _draw it_ ." Eames says, because dude. It had been a pear. He'd drawn a fucking pear, what the hell else was he supposed to do? Draw all the hopes and dreams he'd ever had? The  _essence_ of what it  _meant_ to be a pear? Fucking artsy nonsense of talking instead of doing. Yeah, he wasn't the best artist ever, he never said he was, but at least he drew what he damn well meant to.  
  
"So whose the guy?" She asks, unsubtle as pillow was hard and he shrugged, because...fuck how did you just. Collapse Arthur into a word? Or a sentence? Or anything close to manageable? You didn't, that's how.  
  
"One of my mates." He says, because, well. Close.  
"Needed to draw someone."  
  
"Bullshit." She grins. "You drew him all complicated. You don't draw people complicated unless you start thinking about it while you're working. When I think about what a building is used for then I start drawing it to reflect its use. So." She leans forward. "Whose the guy?"  
  
"You aren't one of those girls who just wants the men around her to be gay so she can take them shoe shopping, are you?"  
  
"I did detect sexual intent. You draw the feet too lovingly, its how I draw my cathedrals."  
  
"I really hate shoes." Eames adds. "And I'm not even really gay."  
  
"But the arms." She tenses hers in front of her. "There was just such control there. Direction, like roadways. Follow this line, go here, do this." She takes another drink of tea. Eames wouldn't call it a sip.  
  
"I mean. I hadn't thought about that part." He hasn't. He's known Arthur's a man, of course he has, he's been thinking about dick sucking since...not since they met. But for awhile, and he's had sex with men, but not really since that was just practice, but...he hadn't really thought...so much...about that part of the whole deal. "I guess I am. Gay. You fuck men that makes you gay, right? Or...that other one. Bi?"  
  
"You interested in girls? Any girl?" She asks.  
  
He frowns. "No. Not that." Not a single one? Surely there had to be someone. But there wasn't. He couldn't think of anyone. So. That meant he was gay. And he wasn't freaking out about it. Not  _really_ , he wasn't going to. But he'd just...hadn't thought about it. "No."  
  
"Well." She shrugs, "It can be as easy as that, if you want it to be. Everything is easy or complex as you want it to be. That's up to you, I guess. I don't really know, I've never had to deal with any sort paradigm shift like that." She shrugs. "So. Who's the guy?"  
  
"Arthur." Eames says. "He's..." and all he can do is shrug, and then he shifts and pulls out his sketchpad and puts it on the table. She looks at him and then picks it up and opens it.  
  
He has to draw daily, to improve his hand control, and so he draws what's around him. And as it goes, Arthur is sort of around a lot. Never, like, draws him sleeping, but he'll draw Arthur hand around his coffee mug, and he'll draw Arthur's feet up on the table. He draws his dog, now, too, because she likes the attention and likes to see his hands moving and she bats at the pencil. But this sketchbook? Packed edge to edge with Arthur and he hadn't meant to do it on purpose, but it had happened, somehow.  
  
Ariadne whistled. "Who  _is_ this guy?"  
  
"Arthur," Eames shrugs. "He's just...Arthur."

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Feb. 5th, 2011 11:40 am (local)

### Rule Ten (Part Ninety Two)

[ Future!fic. Set when everything is happy. ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/71150.html?thread=3178734) by  [ **persephone_il** ](http://persephone-il.livejournal.com/) GOOD TIMES. GOOD TIMES.  
  
He has to go back to the house on 7th, and he doesn't want to, but rules are, nonetheless, rules. He doesn't get a kiss tonight, since he fucked off class early, and he'll tell that to Arthur later, and he's not sure how that works anymore. Maybe it's just a kiss he doesn't have to ask for. He'll figure it out later.  
  
"I'm home." He calls, not expecting an answer, and drops his bookbag at the door and takes off his coat. "I know you are," he mutters, "otherwise I wouldn't be."  
  
"Charles!" he hears and his mum comes down the steps. "Where have you been, I've been worried sick."  
  
He pauses and then looks around to make sure he has the right house. "Drawing class. Told you ages ago I was taking one. Tuesday and Thursdays." Eames shifts. "You need me to carry something, or something?"  
  
"A drawing class? You draw?" She hovers at the entry way. "How long...are you always out this late?"  
  
Eames shrugs. "Yeah. I guess. Mostly." He takes off his shoes and puts them next to the door. They're the only ones there and it makes something in his twist like an Indian burn and he picks his bag back up. "You need something? Tea?"  
  
"No, Charles, here, come here." She goes to the living room and sits on the couch, patting the floral patterned cushion next to her. "I feel we haven't had a talk in awhile."  
  
"I'm sort of knackered." He rubs the back of his head, and then takes his cap off. "Are you sure you didn't need me to carry anything?"  
  
"No, I just." She scrapes her hair back. "I was think about this baby." She bends to look down at her stomach, and he doesn't remember her being this noticeable last he saw her and he stands there. "And I was thinking about you, when you were just a little baby, and." She covers her mouth and he twitches to go get the wastebasket and she shakes her head. "I'm fine. And. Look at you." She rubs her palms against the fabric of her sweats and then he moves over and sits.  
  
"Charles, we were..." She presses her fingers to her lips. "Well, we were talking, and you'll be 18 soon enough-"  
  
"In a year." He says. "Are you kicking me out?" He stands, "Because, you know, I was going to leave anyways."  
  
"No, no, Eames." She shakes her head, "No, I was just thinking...all those years have gone by and I feel like I barely know you. I remember when you were just such a little thing, and now look at you. 17."  
  
He stares at her. "Mum, are you feeling okay?"  
  
She's frowning. "Tattoos? When did you get..."  
  
"DC, mum. Remember?"  
  
She pats his arms like she can't believe they're there. "I don't...when did you get...Charlie, when did you grow up, I just don't. Oh Charlie, sweetie." She wraps her arms around him and he pats her back awkwardly.  
  
"It's fine, mum. You're just. It's fine. I'll make some tea and we'll get you to bed."  
  
"We're going to start having family dinners." She decides as he goes to the kitchen and starts up the kettle, electric, yes, but no longer the beat up Tesco one that took half an hour to do shit, but a good one, a proper one. He gets down the mugs and she's still going, but she does that. Gets on a roll with something, and in a bit she'll get up to go write it down and that'll be the end of the night. It's not like this hasn't happened before.  
  
She's not a bad mum, she just. Gets distracted by projects, is all. SO for a week or two they'll be a cheery nuclear family, but it'll fall apart. It always just falls apart.  
  
"That sounds good." He replies when there's a lull. Arthur will be happy, right? If nothing else it'll make Arthur happy, who thinks that his ideal family is lurking somewhere if he maybe just suggests enough picnics. It's not Arthur's fault. Mostly. Mostly not Arthur's fault.  
  
"And then you'll have a little brother." She finishes taking her tea. "And maybe we could move, hmm? To a bigger house?"  
  
Eames pauses.

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Feb. 5th, 2011 11:47 am (local)

### Rule Ten (Part Ninety Three)

MOAR TOMORROW AS I LOSE THE FIGHT AGAINST THE MELODRAMA. FUCK.  
  


"I might be able to get a better job at another location in the company, there's an opening, and with the baby, and extra expenses-after I finish my maternity leave, of course. Back to England, though, wouldn't that be nice? You always talk about going back to England." She pets his shoulder. "Wouldn't that be nice?"  
  
"But I just got settled here." He says, tea,-fuck tea. This is. This is, they can't move  _again_ , not  _now_ . Or nine months, or a year, they can't do this  _now_ . That fucking boat has sailed. His gut freezes, and he can't...this isn't how it's supposed to go. A baby, fine, babies happen, but they are not  _moving again_ . He. Would Arthur let him go? Would he  _tell_ him to? Fuck. He would, wouldn't he? He'd tell Eames to go and he still wouldn't fuck him, and then Eames would get to go back to England and...what? Fucking deal with all this...shit...in his head by himself?  
  
"It's just an idea." She says like he's slapped her and he realizes he yelled at her. He doesn't yell at mum. Prick? Sure. But he doesn't...that's not how they work. "I thought you'd be happy."  
  
He's not happy. Nothing that comes of this conversation would ever make him happy.   
  
"I'm not a chair, mum. You can't just pick me up, pack me away and put me down where ever you feel like it. You moved. We're here now. I left my mates, my school, everything, and we're here now, and I'm not about to do it again. Alright?" He moves aside and grabs his bag and goes to his room and closes the door.  
  
She doesn't follow and so he sits. It's not going to happen. It isn't. It's just one of her ideas. It'll die out and they'll stay here, and eventually Eames will move in with Arthur and...it'll be fine. Everything will be fine.  
  
He fumbles out his phone and presses speed dial before he even thinks about it and it rings out. It's just the home phone. he could call Arthur's mobile, but instead he puts the phone down. He'll call again in a bit. He's fine. It's fine. He's fine. Everything is going to be fine.  
  
He picks up the mobile and calls Arthur on his, and this time Arthur picks up, and that's good. Fine. Eames ignores the swell of relief, like just talking to Arthur will solve everything.  
  
"Eames." Arthur greets, absently. "How did your class go?"  
  
"Arthur, am I gay?" Eames blurts, which is the dumbest fucking thing he could say, but better then talking about anything else, or admitting he skipped class or...just...anything else happening right now, because it really probably won't happen. This isn't even the first time she's mentioned moving again, but this is the first time since...everything is going so well, and...they'll still be here, they will. He just. Everything is finally going  _well_ .  
  
Arthur is quiet for awhile and then, "Are you just...now...worried about this?"  
  
Eames laughs, and rests his head against the door. "I just hadn't thought about it before. Really. I mean. Fuck."  
  
Arthur doesn't mind when Eames can't talk and just waits, quietly, and he isn't typing, so maybe he actually has his full attention. "Its not like I didn't know you were a guy, or...but. I just hadn't thought about it. And then I realized  _you're_ gay and then I just. I mean. It doesn't mean anything, right?"  
  
"It means as much or as little as you want it to." Arthur says.  
  
"Can you just." Eames rubs his voice. "Arthur, could you please just talk at me. For awhile? About anything. Work. Just. I need you to talk. For awhile. Can you. I'm asking. Can you?"  
  
Arthur pauses, then, "Of course."

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Feb. 6th, 2011 11:38 am (local)

### Rule Ten (Part Ninety Four)

Arthur does talk, Eames couldn't give a fuck about what he was saying, he just cur;s up next to the door and listens.   
  
He doesn't think they'll move. He really doesn't, because his mum will forget about this, just like she forgets about everything, this will fade away. And he's put too much fucking work in this baby's room for them to move now. It's painted, and he ripped up the carpet by hand and laid out a new one, not white or any off white, because it was a fucking kid's room, you didn't put white carpet in a fucking kid's room. Or just, you know, because spills, right?   
  
So he'd gone with a chocolate brown for the carpet and the curtains. It was manly enough that the prick left him the fuck alone about it, and if the kid threw up or whatever it'd be fine.   
  
Fuck, he was babbling in his head. But if... _if_ this stuck, then. What if...what if it took him ages to find what Arthur wanted out of him. What if they moved soon, he needed. He needed a back-up plan. A job. He needed a...fucking job, so if something went south he could get a place. If they moved then Arthur would insist, wouldn't he? Insist he go with his  _family_ , because that's the sort of person Arthur was.  
  
He needed to get a job. And then he could save up if something went wrong. He couldn't depend on Arthur either. Oh, well, he could, but. What about if Arthur meets someone, huh? What about-  
  
Eames closes his eyes and refocuses on Arthur's voice, because he cannot, he  _cannot fucking deal_ with the idea of that right now, there are things he can deal with and that is not one of them. He's close, he is  _so fucking_ close to what he wants, and Arthur isn't going to. He isn't going to find anyone and his mum isn't going to move them.  
  
"I just. I got talking to Ariadne about stuff." He says and Arthur stops talking immediately and Eames stares across the room at his shit Venetian blinds. "About the drawing, I did for class? And she. She got it. You know? Like. She. And she asked who you were. And then she asked if I was gay, or, I thought about it, or...whatever. And I just. When did you realize you were gay?"  
  
Arthur sighs into a laugh and Eames finds it ridiculous how much that warms him up, like he took a shot of something completely vicious that's soaking him through from the inside out and he relaxes into it. "When I was six."  
  
"Shit. Really?"  
  
"Mm," Arthur hums, "Mom caught me and this kid making out in my room over my baseball cards." He pauses. "Well, not making out, as we were six, but she pretty much got the message."  
  
"And she was fine with it. And...like your dad?"  
  
"Well, mom thought I'd be more like the stereotype, so she took me shopping, and taught me to bake and cook."  
  
"Nice." Eames says.  
  
"She was just trying to be supportive." Arthur says, "And it was the 80's, so there wasn't a lot of...gay...awareness. It was either flamboyant, or an AIDS spreading demon child molester. So."  
  
"How'd your dad take it?"  
  
"Well. He made me take kick boxing, martial arts, self defense classes, kuk sool, wrestling and baseball."  
  
"To man you up?" Eames asks.  
  
"Well. A little bit, but mom yelled at him, and so it was mostly so I wouldn't get bullied."   
  
"And your brothers?"  
  
"Well, they all grew up knowing I was the way I was, long before they knew there was problem, or could be a problem, so there wasn't one."  
  
"So. No problems?" Eames asked. "Not...anything?"  
  
"Not for me. Not really. I wasn't...Kids target other kids for stupid things, things they can't control, and when they target other kids, it's because that kid is easy to pick on. Isolated, physically smaller or weaker, and I wasn't those things. And I didn't like anyone else being picked on for the reasons I would have been picked on if my dad hadn't signed me up for so many classes I was the only person I knew to have a planner."  
  
"So that explains that."  
  
"Start a habit when your seven, it's a bitch to get rid of." Arthur sighs.  
  
"So, what, you were your school's sheriff? Made sure everyone got along?"

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Feb. 6th, 2011 01:19 pm (local)

### Rule Ten (Part Ninety Five)

MOAR TOMORROW  
  
"I don't...like...seeing people being preyed on." Arthur says, voice low and vicious and Eames grips his knee, because  _fuck_ , and Eames breaths out, slowly and Arthur pauses.  
  
"Interesting." He muses and Eames ducks his head against his knees and Arthur laughs and Eames laughs with him, because, yeah, laugh about it. That will help. "So. Want to talk about it?"  
  
"No?" Eames offers. "It's fine. I'm fine. And you need to keep to schedule, right?"  
  
"It's fine, Eames, you need me, you ask for it-"  
  
"You give it to me." Eames finishes. "Thank you. Just. You know."  
  
"Lesson," Arthur notes, "When I promise something, it happens."  
  
Eames shivers and then scowls at himself. "I'm good now. If you need to go. Homework. And shit."  
  
"Okay." Arthur says. "Though, I'd like to add, that I am happy to hear you drop the name of a person I have no idea who is."  
  
"Yeah, soon I'll be telling you all about how Kristy, that's with a K, not a C, because the one with a C? Total slag, the one with a K, got her nipple pierced, and Tommy was so totally like you could see it, but-"  
  
"Stop, stop, for the love of God. Go do your homework."  
  
"Yessir." Eames says and shuts the mobile and presses it to his forehead and breathes, because he just needs to breathe a moment. He'll get a job, he'll save the money, keep it all in an account, and tap into it if something goes wrong. Like they actually decided to...whatever.   
  
Having a plan relaxes him, everything will be fine. He'll get a job, he's sort of got a friend. Person. Thing. They'd programmed their numbers into each other's mobiles. He could send her a text right now, if he wanted to. Except he had no idea what to say, and he never has any idea what to say, but Arthur deals with it. Ariadne might still think he's like an artistic soul, or whatever still. Can't ruin that by talking too much.  
  
He gets up and tears open his bag, dumping his homework onto the bed, and this would be easier with Arthur's computer, but he'll just...go in early and type it up and print it off. And then print off. And then sit through class and sketch Arthur's eyes over, and over and over and fucking over again. And then stay out looking for jobs. And then come back here and do more homework. And go in early to print it off. And stay out late looking for jobs. Until he got a job at which point he'd get up early to print this off, stay at school all fuck day, then work late, and roll it over again.  
  
"Living for the weekend, right?" He muttered and grabbed his fucking Physics book.

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Feb. 7th, 2011 04:44 am (local)

### Rule Ten (Part Ninety Six)

 

"Actually now would be the best time for this, really." Cynthia says sipping her frappacino like she couldn't bare to have the straw be more than a few inches from her mouth. "If you were all there then it would take a better top than me to break you down when you're at your best."  
  
"Not better, just...different." Arthur says. "I did my research, the best tops have all done some subbing, so I subbed."  
  
"You were brilliant I bet." Cynthia says, "I always thought you'd have made a wonderful sub, if that was the way your life worked out. Hard." She clarifies, "Amazingly difficult sub, fight a top every step of the way, trying to lead-except..." She squints at him. " _Except_ if you felt needed."  
  
"You think a lot about this?" He asks, not entirely comfortable with how she's looking at him, considering, especially why they're talking.   
  
"I think a lot about everything." She shrugs. "The point is, you're off-kilter, and I still need to push you  _very_ hard to get you to a place where I can do the things to you that you want me to do. Why, me, again?" She tilts her head. "I know I'm the best at technical implements, but I'm not exactly your type."  
  
"I can't have my type." Arthur shakes his head. "I see my type and I will wrestle them to the ground, and they're not going to beat me. They're never going to beat me, so." He gestures. "I need someone who works differently."  
  
Cynthia nods and they continue down the street. It's a nice day out, properly sunny and warm and Arthur basks in the weather. "I need to learn how to use tools, I don't know how to, to learn how to use them I need to expirence them, and in order to expirence them I need to sub, and in order to sub I need someone who can shove me down there, because-"  
  
"You don't go easy unless someone needs you. I don't need you. If your boy wanted it, if your boy said  _Hey, Arthur, I need to feel like I can control something, I know I'm not really the best at this, but everything is out of control, please help me, let me feel like I can handle something_ , oh, then. Then you'd be lovely."  
  
"That's not an option." Arthur says. "I'm fine with being pushed hard. I need to do this."  
  
"For Eames."  
  
"Yes." He says, "I don't know what Eames expects of me, I need to be able to... do whatever he needs from me."  
  
"And that's the kicker, there." She says, "I can do this because you think it needs to be done. So. When?"  
  
"Tonight." Arthur says. "If you're not already booked."  
  
"I can shuffle some things around. I'll need the full night, and I have two, but they're regulars, I'll shift them, give them a discount. It'll be fine, flat fee for you, seven hours, you show up at seven, we go until two, and if nothing happens, we try again."  
  
"Seven?"  
  
"We're in the room by seven." She clarifies. "You need to get back to work?"  
  
"I'm upper management, but I don't have a department I'm in charge of" He shrugs, "I don't think I've actually been in my office in a month. I mostly review paperwork, checks and balances and the sort of thing."  
  
"Go home, find something like a calm center-yoga, meditation, no liquor, weed, maybe, if it has a short buzz life, you need to be sober for the scene, and I will check, but nothing harder, video games, whatever gets you into the middle of the storm, otherwise this is going to be much harder on you."  
  
  
Arthur nods and she salutes him off, continuing down the street. He turns and head back to the car, head buzzing, and he's not going to find any kind of foundation tonight, but he needs to try. He does, or this is going to be miserable. You can't fake it, or, well, he probably could, if he wanted to, which is why he went professional for this. You can't fake Cynthia, and that means he won't get his ass beaten out of his headspace, because that's dangerous, that' can mess a man up, and he has no intention of being too traumatized to help Eames. He's going to learn, first by feeling it, then by watching it, then by doing it, then, maybe, by sceneing it, but he's going to learn this down to his bones, because toys do not make a scene, but Eames is young and will want to experiment and Arthur...Arthur could take him to the Basement and let someone...else...do it, but he really can't.  
  
He really can't.

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Feb. 7th, 2011 07:44 am (local)

### Rule Ten (Part Ninety Seven)

Yeah, so Arthur is going to be sceneing with a female OC, and playing the bottom. That's going to happen. Make of it what you must.  
  
He shows up at six thirty, and he refuses to change clothing into anything...less dignified. He's not a short leather shorts type of person, or tight jeans, or leather vest. Actually he just dislikes leather except for a dignified jacket. It creaks and it smells and it's a bitch to clean.  
  
He doesn't get a drink, because that isn't going to help, he just needs to sit and listen to the jazz band. He dressed down no waistcoat, no jacket, no tie, just his trousers and a dress shirt, socks, shoes, pants. That's as many layers as he's willing to remove by himself, any more than that and he...just can't.  
  
"Arthur?" Cynthia places a hand on the back of his neck and he freeze, teeth gritting, because he's jumpy. He wants to grab her wrist and pin her to the table, or just step away, or stare her off, and  _fuck_ he's on edge and she must notice, so she's doing this on purpose.   
  
She leans down. "I see you didn't take my advice."  
  
"I scene to unwind. If I had another way of doing it then I would be a more balanced person."  
  
"What did you do when you were a kid?"  
  
"Wrestle people to the ground, get hard, want to keep them there, and then running off, confused and hard into my room to jerk off and bite my pillow."  
  
"Interesting." Cynthia says, and Arthur recognizes that tone of voice. That was the exact same tone of voice he used when Eames has basically groaned over the phone last night, and that wasn't helping, wasn't helping-  
  
"Go sign out the forms, pay and pick a safeword that isn't Eames, because I am nearly entirely positive you will need to mutter his name to yourself to get through this. You can at least get to the room without flipping out, hmm?"  
  
"I can handle this, Cynthia." He grits and she squeezes the back of his neck. "Safeword, Arthur, then you step into my room and my room is under my control, understand. When you come into my room, you better be prepared for that." She's quiet and he knows these tricks, and he isn't going to fall for them, he isn't, but she lets go and walks off. He grits his teeth.   
  
It's not even a pride thing, it really isn't, it's just that when someone else tries to take control of a situation, he... he needs to know that the other person can handle it better than he can. He needs to know the new sheriff in town can do his job. And said sheriff in town usually needs to wrestle him to the ground and prove it. And if he could find a man who could beat him, awesome, but he really, really can't.   
  
"You okay, Arthur?" Maple, behind the desk, asks. "You look..."  
  
"I'll be okay." Arthur says, he pats her hand and she grips it and he pauses, because she's never been nervous about him before, and he must be some kind of wreck if she is now. He rubs his forehead. "New at...this."  
  
"No need to be nervous, sweetie. Cynthia is one of our best. She'll take good care of you." She pats his hand again. "Open yourself to expirence."  
  
Arthur can't make himself smile, because he's too full of nerves and stomach and sweat, and he isn't nervous, and Cynthia is very good, he's just. He doesn't know what it's going to take to break him down, hasn't done it for...seven years, now and it was easier back then. Fuck if he knows what will happen now. He's...bad...at this. He's always been bad at this, and, hell, if there's a far off day when Eames wants to go then...then that will be a different story. Eames will need him. It's always a different story when Eames needs him, It's always going to be a different story.  
  
He gets to the door and stares at it. For Eames. Eames needs him, and he needs to be even headed and he's going to figure himself out, and it will be fine. Everything will be fine. He can whether this, might even enjoy it. Will, enjoy it, probably, he's just...not scared.

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Feb. 7th, 2011 09:12 am (local)

### Rule Ten (Part Ninety Eight)

 

Fuck this. He opens the door and steps in and shuts it behind him, standing tall and staring her down. She leans across the room. And he knows what this is. She's going to let him talk, let him wind down, let him work off his nerves, talk out his problems and she'll be a steady and that will calm him down and he knows this- He's against the door before he realizes, and that's clever, note he's lost in thought and take advantage.  
  
"Well," She says, stepping back "let's do this."  
  
He feels his wrists. Nylon rope, fuck, he can't tie that fast. That's why he uses handcuffs. Click, snap, done. "When did you get so good at."  
  
  
"I will gag you, Arthur. I will gag you until you forget words, Arthur." She steps back and he glares at her, trying his wrists again. Not sloppy, tight, good, years of practice, right there. He rubs his fingers over the rope and she smiles.   
  
"Stop analyzing what I do Arthur." Cynthia says, "I have seen your tapes, I know how you operate."  
  
"I know the tricks, Cynthia." Arthur says, "I can't help it."  
  
"You don't know my tricks, Arthur. You don't know everything." She hops up on a table and watches him. "You don't know me. Sit down."  
  
"I'm fine standing." He says, and he doesn't know why.  
  
She gets up and moves closer and he tenses, ready to kick up and she rubs her fingers over the shirt. "Nice, two-ply, Egyptian cotton, only one visible side seam, handsewn button holes, very nice. Gauntlet button. Perfect fit, on the neck, wrists bespoke? Have to be. Well maintenanced, I must say." He grabs him by the collar. "I will cut this off you. Do you understand me? I will  _cut_ this off you."  
  
"You wouldn't." He says.  
  
"I will." She says, petting the fabric. "Or spill on it. I know  _all_ the things a dry cleaner can't get out, so." She cocks her head. "Sit down, okay?"  
  
He grinds his teeth. She fiddles with the top button. "I will start pulling buttons. So move. Is this what you want to be stubborn about? Sitting down? You want to fight me every step of the way? I can go with that, I will beat you down into the ground, Arthur, and you won't enjoy it, you won't like a single second of it. Do you want that to start now? Or do you want to hold it off for just a bit longer?"  
  
"I'm not scared of you." He says, because he' not, he's not scared of her, or pain, or being humiliated. He's not  _afraid_ , he's just...bad at this. And he hates being bad at things.  
  
"No," She says, taking his top button and flicking it open. "You shouldn't be, either, Arthur. I don't want to scare you. But I am going to hurt you, and we need to get you to someplace where you'll let me."  
  
Arthur nods, teeth so tight together he can feel the pressure all the way through him, in his temples down his neck, across his shoulders and spiraling down his spine and she just watches him. He goes and sits down in front of the table, cross legged and twitches his hands. He wishes he knew how to get out of this sort of thing. He should learn that. That might be helpful, fists tight and he just breathes.  
  
"Good," she says and then steps away and he resists looking behind him as she moves around. She steps back, the click of heels and he focuses on the supports of the table, bolted into the ground. Good. Good for many things, that table, stainless steel, easy clean up. Arthur swallows and then jerks as cold water jerks down over him. A bucket. A bucket of cold water and he's sputtering and she's got his heels in a spread and he fights up, falling down on his ass and she puts her fingers in his hair and just...musses it up until the cold water is dripping down his face.   
  
"What the  _fuck_ ?" He struggles to get onto his feet and he can't.   
  
"You look younger with your hair down." She notes, then sits back up on the table, looking down at him. He blinks his eyes and shakes his head, finally wiping his eyes off on his knee. "When Eames is older maybe  _you_ can play the hot-to-trot barely legal piece of ass."  
  
"It's isn't like that." Arthur says, glaring up at her. "We aren't like that."  
  
"You sure?" She places her elbows on her knees and stares down at him. "Hot young sub, desperate for affection, needy, you the only person he trusts. Oh, that's got to be good, right?"

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Feb. 7th, 2011 10:34 am (local)

### Rule Ten (Part Ninety Nine) Warning: Oh, yes, More BDSM Scenes!

No, seriously, should we have a party post for part 100? I mean. Dude O_o  
  
"You're trying to make me mad." Arthur closes his eyes. "You're trying to make me mad so I lash out and tire myself. Shouldn't do that until I'm strapped down."  
  
"No. No, I like it this way." She says. "So. Eames. We're going to talk about Eames."  
  
"You aren't going to make me angry about that." Arthur says.  
  
"You realize no matter how long you wait he's still going to be with you because he built you up into a gigantic hero in his head and you're going to have to be that until he realizes the truth and leaves you?"  
  
"Yes." Arthur says, quietly. "I realize."  
  
She whistles. "Bit of a downer there, aren't you?"  
  
"Listen, if you're trying to make me feel guilty about Eames, you can't, because I already do. I do  _every single day_ , okay?" He struggles to stand and she shoves him back down and he breathes. He just...breathes.   
  
"So. Guilt." She stretches. "Guilt, guilt, guilt, guilt. Big seething mass, right? Got to be a mess in there."  
  
"I'm handling it fine." He says. "I can handle everything fine."  
  
"Think Eames picks up on that?" Cynthia murmurs. "You think he looks at you and see it when you feel guilt? Hmmm?"   
  
Arthur sighs. "He wouldn't care even if he did. He would stay even if I looked at him in disgust, because he..." Arthur closes his eyes.   
  
"You're that special?" She asks, slinking down to stand over him. "Hm? Or he's that much of a pushover, huh? You into the weak-willed whimpering bit? Big-eyed, innocent? He beg pretty for it?"  
  
"We aren't like that. I told you." He struggles and she steps around him and drags him up to standing by the wrists and he's ready for it and he spins around, pressing back to the table and kicks out with his feet. She grabs him by the spreader bar and lifts his legs, until all his weight is on his bound hands.  
  
"Puppy, I'm not your boy, I can't lift my weight in iron, but I sling leather as a day job for hours at a time, that rope is going to be digging in like fuck and that's going to hurt a lot more than anything I'm going to do on you."  
  
Arthur breathes and she's staring him down and then shrugs. "You want it like that? Okay. We'll do this now."  
  
"Do what?"  
  
"I will break you down to the ground, Arthur. I want to get you in a better place for it, but, hey." She takes a rope and tosses it up, he looks up at the support bars, the rope slithers over the bar and after a struggle she flips over Arthur over. He doesn't have any leverage, only weight and his thumbs ache and his wrists hurt and it's getting hard to breathe and he flops onto his stomach.  
  
"You're good with knots." Arthur knots when she has his feet up  
  
"Yup. Complete suspension bondage before you realize you're off the ground, entirely quality, entirely safe, no shortcuts. The manacles aren't padded, by the way, this will hurt after awhile."  
  
"Isn't this the point?" Arthur asks, because this is going to hurt, but it's mostly going to be hard breathing, the ropes are supporting his legs, yes, but they're at a higher elevation then his chest, which is bent over the table and all his weight is pressing down and compressing his lungs, arms tied back and he turns his head to the side and she's sitting there and runs her fingers through his hair.  
  
"No." She says. "Hurting you isn't the point. It's the vehicle. We need to get you somewhere safe, darling. Somewhere the monsters won't get you."  
  
Arthur inhales again and stares at her leg. "You don't need to talk like that to me."  
  
"Monsters. From the Latin word monstrum broken down to monstro, verb,  _to show_ . Monsters show things." She keeps petting and he wiggles and her hand snaps to his neck, pressing down and he struggles bu he has nowhere to go. "Tell me about the monsters, Arthur."  
  
"In the closet?" Arthur asks and she presses down harder. "This isn't therapy, Arthur. You don't share when you feel like it, you don't joke, you talk."

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Feb. 7th, 2011 11:38 am (local)

## Rule Ten (Part 100)

WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK PART 100. WHAT THE ACTUAL. MORE TOMORROW. PARTY FOR PART 100 IN ANOTHER POST. GET YOUR GIFs READY I'M GOING TO BED, GIVE ME SOMETHING NICE TO WAKE UP FOR.  
  
"This wasn't about this, Cyn, this was about fucking...learning to do this for Eames."  
  
She slaps her hand down next to his face and then she's there, staring at him and he has no where to go. There is nowhere to go and there is still another...he doesn't know how many hours left, and it's only going to get worse from here.  
  
"Yes," She says, "This is for Eames. And do you think." She says, calm and steady and hard like a punch to the gut, "do you  _think_ you will be hitting him when he isn't ready for it? Will you let him just muscle through for you?"  
  
"No." Arthur says, because no. He wouldn't. He wouldn't ever, not  _fucking ever_ , he won't touch Eames until Eames begged him and begged him and fucking  _pleaded_ . Spanking, sure, paddling, maybe, but he can handle spanking, paddling, a crop, even, this isn't about those. And maybe another top would do it, fold the pain in with the scene, but he  _can't do that_ .  
  
"You should see him." Arthur says. "When he goes. I didn't even do anything. I didn't touch him, didn't talk him into it, I just." He laughs, because it's ridiculous. "I put him on the bed. And I told him to stay there. I just meant, his room. I was decorating for his birthday, and when I came back in he was gone."  
  
She's watching him and he doesn't blink.  
  
"And you know what got him there? I didn't do a thing, went all by himself, and do you know what pushed him?"  
  
"What."  
  
"My shoes." He raised his eyebrows and she strokes through his hair and it's cold, and wet and the room is cold. "He was looking at my shoes, and he thought  _Arthur takes care of his things, all of Arthur's things are exactly where he puts them._ And then he thought  _I'm where Arthur put me. I'm one of his things. Arthur will take care of me._ and he was gone. He was just." He closes his eyes. "It was beautiful."  
  
"That's the hero. Where's the monster? Object-subject-abject principles. You want to be the object worthy of that, and god, that's beautiful. You want to be able to bring him down and feel every minute of it. You want to watch when he goes bottomless and you can see that he'll take anything you give him."  
  
"Yes." Arthur hisses.  
  
"What's the abject, what are you hiding from. Where's the monster, Arthur?"  
  
"What kind of sick fuck takes a 16 year old boy and makes him his sub. Fuck, sure, that's...that's wrong, but...that happens. People get over that. Make him mine when he's these young? Impressionable? Who  _does_ that? I can't...I can't scene, because if it isn't him, I don't want it. I can't fuck anyone, because I don't fuck without sceneing, and I can't say no, because I can't...  _do_ that to him."  
  
"Monster, Arthur, not the story." Cynthia digs her nails into the back of his neck until they're like shrapnel off an explosion going on in his stomach.  
  
"I should let him go, I should let him." Arthur's jaw closes and his teeth clench and no more words are coming out. She digs harder, but his jaw  _will not unclench_ , he can't...get any more words out. He shakes his head and struggles, because he wants to leave. He doesn't want to talk about this, because he needs to be there for Eames, and he can't think about  _why_ , because then he'll just be useless.  
  
"Arthur, Arthur talk to me. What is it. What are you so afraid of?"  
  
He shakes his head and flops and he has no leverage at the fuck all and he probably looks ridiculous but he needs out. Needs  _out_ and Cynthia is out of his view and then he feet are on the ground and he's up, and falling and she's got him, and then his arms are free and he scrambling at her, he wants  _out_ and he's on the ground, panting, held up by his arms and glaring at her because this was a stupid fucking idea and he needs out, he needs.  
  
"You're no good to him. Like this." Cynthia says, putting the length of rope in a box. "You go home like this and...what? You think you can pull yourself together in time? So, you know colors. Coming up on the intersection, tell me what I'm looking at."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Split into 3 parts because chapters kept going missing.

 

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Feb. 7th, 2011 11:41 am (local)

### Rule Ten (Part 101)

MOAR TOMORROW  
  


He swallows and pushes himself up on his knees.   
  
"Green." He says, finally. "I'm fine."  
  
"You're as far from fine as a daily soap, but, yeah, okay. Open up."  
  
"What?"  
  
She hold up her fingers. "One means red, two means yellow, three means green. I don't care which fingers, you hold them up where I can see them, and when I can't see you hands, we'll give you something jingly and load to drop. Open your mouth."  
  
She's got a gag and he opens up, because that's better than talking. He would very much like a reason not to talk and she shoves it in before he has a chance to think about why he  _doesn't_ want a gag.   
  
"There we go, locked, by the way. Show me the fingers."  
  
He gives her a three and breathes. he drags his hair out of his eyes and flexes his wrist.  
  
  
"Well that was very near a panic attack, so no more talking for awhile for you. More ways to the brain than words." She sits down and looks at him. "Door is locked, that cement is cold and will eventually hurt your knees, given that you're unaccustomed to kneeling, and your jaw is going to start giving you trouble seeing as you keep biting down. So." She relaxes into her cushy chair. "Stay over there as long as you need to, and when you're ready, you come over here."  
  
  
He stares at her, swallowing his spit as best as he's able. She smiles and picks up a book. "No, really. Take as long as you need to. When you're ready you crawl over here and you can get off your knees."  
  
He rubs his wrists and she opens her book. "Of course once you do come over here to my warmer, comfier area, I will note that I will have you drop trou-and if you don't I will do tragic, tragic things to such nice pants-and I will spank you. So go ahead. Wait it out. Pros and cons. Just going to get colder, over there. A/C's on, and I have a book."  
  
He growls and she settles in and flicks the reading lamp on the table next to the chair on and he's left kneeling there, and he is a bit cold, since his shirt breathes easily, thin and loose and the cement is hard underneath his knees, and it would be too award trying to figure out how to sit in this rig and she'd do...something to him that he wouldn't enjoy.   
  
If he could talk he'd ask how many strikes. But he can't. And if he could talk he'd...he could ask questions. he could engage her attention. But he can't. Can't even really see the cover of the book she's reading. And he knows what this is. He doesn't do it often, doesn't have the chance, not really, but ignore him. Until he demands attention, until he gives in and goes over there. It's simple, really. Uncomfortable over here, warmer over there. And if he were dumb he'd be wondering how hard she can hit. How bad it could  _possibly_ be.  
  
But he's not dumb. She doesn't get paid what she does for having a weak hand. And it's inevitable. He will either kneel here for another...however many hours, endless, endless amount of time, or he'll tap out (weak. It's not even. He needs to  _do_ this.) or he'll go over there. And she's probably adding up the minutes to use as smacks. The longer he stays here the worst it will get. And he needs to get to the point. He needs to learn, and to learn he has to get up and go.  
  
He rubs his hands against his thighs. It will hurt, sure, but staying here will hurt too. So best go over there. More logical to go over there. He's not afraid of pain. He's not afraid of this. He doesn't mind crawling. He's crawled before. Looking for a dropped pen. No shame. It's not pride. Needs to do this for Eames. He's  _going_ to do this.  
  
He puts a hand on the floor. He puts the other. The cement is cold and smooth and how many other men and women have been down here, on their knees, with the same choice.  
  
He lifts up and it's hard. It's hard to crawl with a spread bar. He doesn't want to wear out his trouser knees so he lifts his leg and carefully puts it down. A hand. A knee. A hand. A knee. Simple. Easy. Just live in the moment. Can't hurt that much. Or it will. But it's fine. Doing it for Eames.  
  
He stops. He's at the chair. He looks up, and she's staring at him, still holding her book.

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Feb. 8th, 2011 10:02 am (local)

### Rule Ten (Part 102)

 

"Up." She says, simple, and he's on his knees, stumbles to his feet. Up. Simple. Easy. He can do this. This is fine. He can do this for Eames. Bare handed spanking. Nothing new. He's done this. With...a man...but he shouldn't dish out what he can't take, right?  
  
"Drop them."  
  
He swallows so he doesn't just drool right down his chin, because, well, some fucking dignity and she waits. He opens his belt, his pants and drops them.  
  
She leans her head on her fist and looks him over. "Underwear, now."  
  
He pauses, then closes his eyes, because being naked is better than talking and that's probably the other option, here. Nothing to be ashamed of and she isn't judging, so he takes them off. They're still stuck around his ankles, all of it and he stands there.  
  
"Belt." She holds out her hand, palm up.  
  
Arthur stares at her, and his teeth slide along the slippery surface of the gag. She said she was going to use her hand. She was going to spank him. He can handle a spanking. People not even in scene can handle a spanking. Spankings are nothing, comparatively. But a belting? That's...there were plenty of uses for belts then just hitting someone with them. She just wanted to make him nervous. She wanted him off kilter.  
  
He wasn't the type to make a sub wait. That is how he played, but he knew how it went. He, personally, would take an implement-something wicked and viscous-and leave it out. Just for the sizzle of fear in the room, the scent of anticipation and sweat and the darting glances. He didn't even use it, just left it in plain view until his partner was a live wire jerking against his hold and spitting sparks. It didn't matter what it was, after awhile they just wanted him to use it so it'd be  _over_ with it.  
  
"Arthur," She says, because Cynthia is a psychology major, he thinks, and during one conversation or another, mentioned how people's favorite word was their own name. And it's true. It draws him out of his head, can't help but snap to attention when she does it. "All you're going to get from procrastination is a bad grade, and there isn't a curve. So best hurry up, hmm?" She glances down at his belt.  
  
He bends over slowly and tugs the leather from his belt loops and the scent of leather is sharp, piercing right down into his memory, and he's been here before, he's done this so many times before, leather and sweat and he shudders, because it doesn't get old. He isn't an expert on this side of it, but the mood sinks down over his brain. Play. They're playing. And they're going to play hard, and it will hurt, but they're playing.  
  
He looks at her as he hands her the belt. She takes it and turns her attention solely to it, ignoring him entirely. She examines the buckle and runs her thumb along the inside, nostrils flaring at the sharp, familiar scent. She smiles to herself and she fingers the seams.  
  
"You customarily wear suspenders," She notes, after a long, achingly long, pause, wherein he becomes aware and re-aware of how awkward it is to stand with his legs this distance apart, and he twitches. Her eyes flick to him as she rubs the leather. She's testing the give, is she going to bind his hands with it? His thighs? Around his neck? He would lash out at that. He'll do this, but he's not going to be leashed, that's an angry gritty part in his brain that won't budge and so he probs it, like it might be sore.  
  
She's making him wait. He knows what she wants. He would give it to her if he could, but if he could, then they wouldn't need this. He could just go and she could just take him there, and it'd be fine. But he can't, so they're stuck.   
  
"Just because you know what I'm doing, doesn't mean it won't work." She adds and then squares off her feet. "Today, instead of your normal suspenders, you chose to wear a a belt." She holds it to her nose and inhales, like he brought her a pie instead of an accessory. "And you don't wear this one, if any belt, often, do you?" She rattles the buckle. "No scratches, no distended notch, smells fresh, and doesn't  _quite_ match your shoes. Tacky. So, you chose  _this_ belt on purpose."

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Feb. 8th, 2011 11:06 am (local)

### Rule Ten (Part 103)

Moar tomorrow. Today was...bad.  
  


Arthur doesn't think he did. He just thought suspenders might get in the way. but then, everything that gets in the way could be removed. She could have just asked him to strip at the door, given him a moment to change headspace-not that it would have helped, much-but there would have been a transition. He doesn't...he doesn't really remember getting dressed, just that his stomach had been doing something like mitosis-trying to split in half, or rain drops on the car window as you blew down the Interstate. Protozoa raindrops.  
  
"Interesting." She notes, watching him, stroking the belt, the coils it on the table. "Over my lap."  
  
He can't frown, not with his mouth like this, and he wants to, he wants to ask questions, hold off the inevitable, but all he can do is stand here and he hates that. Hates...hates any loss of control. He's earned it. He can't lose any control. He has to keep everything together. That's what he does. That's his job. Keep everything together.  
  
The pause is nothing compared to how much he's previously been dragging his heels, but she drags him down , feet not following, so he's in an awkward arched bridge, gripping on the back of the chair and she grabs a button and her arms snap back, and the stitching on his shirt is good, really, really good, but it pops off with the squeaky protest and he is more shocked by that then anything else tonight and he stares at her with affront and that was his  _shirt_ .  
  
"Promise mad,e promise kept." She says, dropping the button into the tea cup, and she's got her feet braced on the spreader bar and he can't move without falling and he struggles with his hands but he slips and falls right into her lap and he's writhing, trying to get his fucking button back, because that's his  _shirt_ , she ruined his  _shirt_ . next time he's going to wear his paint clothes and see what she does about that. There won't be a next time. Maybe. He doesn't know. Eames. He needs...he needs to do this. He needs to do this. He needs to know how to do this, and the first, best step is always, always first hand expirence.  
  
She takes another button and he crawls and slinks until he's in position. She fixes him and he closes his eyes, slung over the wide arms of the chair far more than over Cynthia, and given the weight difference, probably intentional. There's no way to be comfortable like this and he press his face to the chair arm and breathes.   
  
"Much better." She not-praises and begins petting him and he sucks around the gag, wanting to tell her to stop and just  _hurt_ him already, but he has nowhere to be, and this is nothing. This is nothing. It just..pulls his skin tight and he shifts, because if she had just hit him they could be done by now. It would have hurt, sure, it would have hurt like anything, but it would be better than pretending to be...something they both know he's not. And he's not pretending. But he needs to do this.  
  
"Oh I know," She says. "I know this, Arthur. Don't worry." She sighs and rests her palm under the edge of his shirt. "You don't even know why you're so angry, do you?"  
  
He pushes himself up on his elbows and turns to glare at her, raises his lips into a snarl and she doesn't know. She isn't in his lap getting petted like he's a good boy. He's not. He's not a fucking  _good boy_ , and she grabs his chin and he grabs her wrist and she reaches down, easy as anything grabs him by the balls and squeezes until he lets go and whines, and she keeps holding and he closes his eyes because he wants to fight her off, and he needs to do this and  _fuck_ why can't this be easier?  
  
"I'll hurt you," She promises, "and then you won't have to feel guilty about anything for awhile."  
  
That isn't what this is about. It isn't. He feels guilty, yes, of course, but that's the point of guilt. You feel it when you do something wrong. Self-punishment, you don't just get out of it, wiggle away with a few smacks.  
  
"Oh, no. I'm not punishing you. I'm just going to hurt you until you stop hurting yourself, for a bit. It's why you wore a belt, isn't it? You wanted to give me something to hurt you with. And I, so kindly, oblige."

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Feb. 9th, 2011 11:47 am (local)

### Rule Ten (Part 104)

Just the one, tonight. Need to sleep forever. More tomorrow.  
  
She doesn't warm him up, no light, teasing little smacks, no warning taps or a gentle, building heat, like he would. If it were Eames, he'd go slow, layer the smacks on top of each other like bricks, like he was making something, until Eames was rocking into the bed, sensitive. He'd watch Eames grab the bed and he'd always rock back to Arthur, always come back for more and he won't feel guilty about anything because he doesn't need to. He will never, ever need to.  
  
She just hits him and he jerks, breath caught and  _yes_ , that, and another one, equally hard, no mercy, no play, just a brutal, straight forward attack on one spot and he writhes. That isn't why he's here. This isn't why he came. This is for Eames. It's not about his...monsters... or...heroes and he fights back, and she just hits again, pain jerking up his body and coiling back as heat, and he doesn't take his hits lying down.  
  
He writhes, grabs the chair and pushes himself up, and she tackles him down to the floor, and his breath is shoved right out of him, ass hitting the ground with a shock of pain, and she's got his shirt down and when he writhes around she pulls it tight on is wrists, the buttons still closed and the cuffs stiff. She winds it closed and his frankly embarrassing flailing isn't helping him.  
  
"Funny story, Fort Worth steer riding junior champion four years in a row. So, you know, go nuts, I'll  _still_ be here."  
  
He's arched off the ground and all he can do is writhe there, if this were an actual fight he could twist, get her in the head, but if he were in an actual fight he wouldn't be in this position. The shirt isn't going to rip, and his hipbones are digging into the ground, or the ground is digging into his hips, and it's going to take more than is flailing to get  _anyone <_ unseated.  
  
He knows he isn't angry at her, exactly, but he feels like he is. It  _feels_ like he's angry with her and he can't fucking move and so he just struggles, because it feels good to struggle, it's digging bruises into him, but who the fuck cares, he isn't going anywhere and he wants her off.  
  
On a lift of his legs she gets him, wraps the shirt around the bar and he's fucking hogtied.  
  
"Won that too." She says, getting off him and he glares at her. "Hogtying. Not as good at it, back then, but i made up for lost time. Stay put. Shout if you need me, I'll hear it."  
  
She gets up and moves to grab a length of rope off the wall, and he stays quiet. If he could rock up onto his knees this would be fine, but he's stuck in a weird, yoga, ankle grabbing pose and he drops his head, breathing, eyes squeezed shut.  
  
"I am going to tie you down, Arthur." She says, "That's just something that's going to happen. You're not going to behave on your own, and I know how much you like crisp,  _neat_ lines."  
  
He freezes, because it's not like he's forgotten he's getting a caning, it just...keeps slipping away, like he doesn't want to look at it, and she trades the unsettling weight of the spreader bar for the more forgiving slack of nylon rope. His feet are too close together to do anything, and she binds his forearms together before removing his shirt and tossing it on to the chair.  
  
"I'm going to tie you down, and then I'm going to let you struggle until you exhaust yourself, finish up that spanking and  _then_ , maybe, I'll think about working on your request. When all the fight is out of you and all you can do is take what I give you. Do you understand me, Arthur? Nod if you understand."  
  
He nods, and she gets him up on his knees, and he tests the bonds. He doesn't know how many lengths of rope she used, can't track the technical aspects anymore, because the rope is thick and there's no give to it, and he doesn't  _need_ to know what's going on, so he just...stops caring. He has no idea what time it is, no idea what he would say if he could, he just stands when he's told, and the hard, angry rocks in his head are sort of going...soft, or...giving, or something. It easier to stand and just wait and she moves him, slow and easy to the table. She'd tied his arms over his head, to the front, and she he can just stretch as they're secured to the table, feet too.

 

Re: Rule Ten (Part 104b)

Fuck you comment limits. Fuck you.  
  


He can move a bit, but it wouldn't do any good, can't get up, can't do anything, really, and she crouches in front of him and he stares at her. "I'm going to blindfold you if you keep glaring at me."  
  
He glares harder and she shrugs. "Suit yourself."   
  
He doesn't want to be blindfolded, which means he probably should be, because if he can still see what's going on he can still control it. Or feels like he can. Feels like he has a handle on the situation as long as he can see it. But that's not the point, he needs to not be in control of the damn situation, and he wishes he could gag his brain. Eames, slips into subspace, and he has to be dragged there by his toenails.  
  
He tries to shake the blindfold, but it wraps tight around his eyes and he shifts around a bit. It's a heavy one, blocks out the light from any direction, better than a tie or handkerchief would be, and he can't talk and he can't see and he can't move, and the situation is out of his hands.  
  
It's completely out of his hands.  
  
"Now," Cynthia says, low, directly into his ear. "Struggle."  
  
He does.

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Feb. 10th, 2011 09:04 am (local)

### Rule Ten (Part 105)

Cynthia was originally a character in a Zombie RPG, wherein we learned that a fully prepared domme was a good thing to have around. Rope. And such.  
  
He didn't need her permission, but he does, bucking up and twisting agaisnt the unforgiving hold of rope, and he doesn't have anywhere, doesn't even have an inch or two left to himself. He's stuck, and he knows that-knew that before he even started-but he can't make himself stop. It's like he's fallen down a hill and now that he can struggle without any possibility of escape he just  _needs_ to. If he were wrestling Cynthia, he's have to hold back, he'd have to pull his punches, because he knows how to hurt someone, knows out of  _cripple_ someone, and he knows better than to let himself go.  
  
But you can't injure rope, and once it's clear that he  _cannot_ move, he fights it, he can't see, he can't talk, he can't  _move_ and he's fucking  _angry_ , with no reason why. He's not angry at anyone, not angry about anything, he's just furious and it has no outlet, he can't justify it or talk himself down, he's mined down to the molten lava and it's bubbling and bursting out, too much pressure, too little space.  
  
Cynthia just lets him go, doesn't touch him, and the ropes bite and his muscles ache, and it's not even that he wants out, he just. He. He pants, nostrils wide and sucking as much air as he can past the gag. His body is sore, and his anger cools, turns to obsidian, gone, as abruptly as it came and it he feels not...okay, yes, fragile. But not...dangerous fragile, like if he breaks he's going to be all edges and points   
  
He lies there, limp with the feeling, and she presses a ball into his hand, and he eventually puts together that he should hold onto it. His fingers curl, sluggish, and he doesn't know what is going on, and for the moment, he doesn't care. He's just there. He can't go anywhere. He can't protest. He can't glare, he's just...existent. Boiled down to nothing.  
  
"Drop that if you need out." She says and he nods, slow and he feels...weighted down. Not heavy, just sort of like he woke up in the middle of the night, and he's still half-asleep, heavy with some barely remembered dream, and he just lies there.  
  
"There you are," She says after some unknown amount of time. She rubs his back and he doesn't try and toss her off, not sure if he can make himself move, he's just there. He's just there and there's nothing he can do about it, so why bother?   
  
"Now to make sure you don't fall asleep on me." She says and her hand is gone, and he's alone, now, maybe. She could have left the room, taken a plane to China for all he knows, and he's not floating. He's sinking down and he just focuses on breathing. He can breath. That's all he needs to worry about.  
  
She moves his legs up, folds them under his body and he lets her, just a group of muscles and skin and his knees are pushed under his body, stretched out and bound down again. He tests the ropes, and they're just as firm, and so he relaxes back into them.   
  
He hears a snap of latex and then a cool touch between his legs and slipping upwards. He jerks forward, but he has nowhere to go.  
  
"I don't need to tell you to relax, do I?" Cynthia asks. "You know how this goes, don't you?"   
  
Arthur breathes out, thighs tensing and rocks back agaisnt her fingers. He knows what she's doing. He thinks. He's not a masochist, he's not going to get off on the pain, not going to enjoy it at all, but... he knows this. The nervous system is a simple, when you attack it at too many angles it just become meaningless sensation. Hot and cold become the exact same feeling taken to the right degree. But the logic makes no sense in his head, and it's like something he saw somewhere.  
  
"There you go," She says, sliding two gloved fingers in and it's been ages since he had anyone. Or anything, really. He's forgotten what it feels like, twitches at being too open and held down and not even tracking what's happening. He always knows what's happening, has to, if he slips he takes other people down with him. He likes focus, he likes burning everything down to a pinpoint, not this hazy, drifting, heavy feeling where all the thoughts slip out of his grasp. it's relaxing, and he doesn't  _do_ relaxing. 

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Feb. 10th, 2011 10:54 am (local)

### Rule Ten (Part 106)

 

She slips something inside, he can't guess what, not just by feel. Plug, vibrator, whatever, he doesn't know, just focuses on breathing, he can breath, he just needs to breathe and everything will be fine. He keeps his grip on the ball and tries to melt into the table, because all he needs to do is just keep breathing.   
  
He nearly jerks out of his own sense of being when the vibrations start, not out of his skin, just...loses track of himself. Like when he was a kid and he's stare at the back of his dad's so long that he forgot he wasn't staring out of his dad's eyes and had to fall back into the knowledge that he was himself.  
  
They shut off and he is relaxing before he realizes he'd been shoving up against the ropes and he needs a moment to remember how to breathe. It takes a few false starts before he gets the rhythm of it, and then she starts it up again, and it's not so much that it feels good, it's just sensation when he can't see and his skin feels two steps away from detached and everything is a foggy, soupy mess in his head, and that, that  _cuts_ through and it's like the focus he needs. It's like that and so he clings onto it because he doesn't want to float away. He hates floating away, hates being out of control and he focuses onto the one thing he has.  
  
When it's there it's almost like he's back into the headspace and when it's gone he feels like he's alone in the dark of someone unknown, foreign space-an empty building at midnight, and he doesn't have any idea what kind of sounds he's making, or what he looks like, he just wants the focus. He needs it, he needs some sort of clarity, because the endless hallways of dark, empty rooms are driving him insane.  
  
"Shh, shh," She calms him, "It's okay. I'll hurt you now. It'll be okay."  
  
And she says it like she's doing him a favor, and he can't help but be grateful about it, and he knows...he thinks... he can't help but want pain because pain would be ever clearer. Pain is much easier to understand than pleasure. Pain is sharp, clear, obvious, where pleasure goes all muted and pastel, and pain is clear, singular.  
  
He thinks he falls a little into something like love, or need, or hunger when the first slap falls, and it's auditory, it's a spark in the foggy, dripping muck of his head, something solid and real and he grips down around it. It hurts, yes, but hurting is  _something he understands_ . He rocks into the feeling and he doesn't know how far apart they are, just that it builds and it's something to look at and focus on and examine, in his head. It's like he's inventing fire.  
  
He loses track of the individual strikes and when he falls too in rhythm with the slaps she switches the vibrator back on and he twists upwards, the rope keeping him down and he can't float off as long as he's held down, but he can't get back out either, not without the ability to move, to  _think_ , he's trapped in limbo, gripping onto fucking breadcrumbs, or pebbles, or whatever got Hansel and Gretal out of the forest.  
  
He doesn't realize, until he hears himself, that she's unlocked the gag, that it's fallen out of his mouth and he sounds like what he wants to hear, breathless and gasping and he can't get words out and the vibrator switches off. His hand loosens and the ball falls and he pants, hoarding air down deep into his lungs.  
  
"Color?"  
  
He swallows and she gets up and the next thing he knows he's sucking water down through a straw and he gasps when he's done and there are fingers in his hair. Not enough weight for what he wants. He doesn't want to fade out again, like the world went through a Sienna filter, or fuzzed into the static between channels.  
  
He can't..."Red," He blurts, because he can't...can't  _do_ this, and he repeats himself and she's got him out before he can recognize it and he blinks at the light. He wipes his mouth and she's standing near enough to touch, but far enough in case he needs the space of his own skin.  
  
"What happened?" She asks and he shakes his head, breathes through it.   
  
"I couldn't  _think_ . I can't...I can't do that. I don't do that."  
  
She nods and he feels like an idiot because he couldn't even get through a damn spanking, and his ass hurts, and he can see the pressure lines and he breathes. 

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Feb. 10th, 2011 10:57 am (local)

### Rule Ten (Part 107)

MORE TOMORROW.  
  


"It was fine, for awhile, when you were hitting me, but...fuck. This is ridiculous."  
  
"If it didn't work for you, then it didn't work for you. There's nothing wrong with that." She says, and yeah, he would say the exact same thing in her place, but it doesn't help. He just... he just wants to fucking help, and he knew it wouldn't work, but he had to try anyways.  
  
"I still want you to hit me with it before I hit anyone. I don't like using toys I haven't felt for myself, but not...not a full on caning. Just." He scrubs his face and she retrieves the button from the teacup and he removes his shirt, and she slips him into a robe, before leading him out and taking him to a cushy chair. At least this time the fact that he's on the being comforted side of the exchange makes sense.   
  
"We can talk about it later. What do you need from me?" She sits on the arm of the chair. "Besides fixing your shirt. Your shirt will be good as new before you leave."  
  
He half-laughs and mostly tries to get his head back in order, but it's like someone went at the drywall with an axe and everything is everywhere while the dust settles. "What would you do?" He asks, after a moment. "If you were me? With Eames, I mean."  
  
She is silent for awhile and he just sits there, more on his hip than a proper sit and he stares at the plush patterning of the cushion.   
  
"I don't know." She says, picking up his hand and beginning to rub at it and he just gives it over. "Never been in a relationship outside of a client-driven one. But," she gets the tightened tendons of his arm, twisted up from typing and he rests his head down. "I'd try to remember that a relationship is a two-way street and he had just as much as a say in what is best for him as I did."  
  
"You trying to tell me something?"  
  
"Yeah, what I've been trying to say all night. Stop over-thinking  _everything_ . You think you have to be the perfect specimen of the fantasy, the Object Lesson Dom, and you think you're this horrible pervert for wanting to be with a seventeen year old, which, okay, I'm not saying is okay, but is  _hardly_ the worst thing I've heard of, and seriously, Arthur? You're not either of those things. He's also not either the perfect play partner, or a stupid messed up kid, okay? You're both somewhere in the middle."  
  
"Everyone loves who they want to be, and everyone hates who they fear they are?" Arthur replies. "So you would stop over thinking everything?"  
  
"Yes. I would. You aren't going to get out of this without getting your hands dirty, but it's probably also not going to be the worst choice you ever make. If you want to a wait a year until he's legal, fine, go nuts, but fucking talk to him about it, okay?"  
  
Arthur nods into the chair. And when he gets his shirt back it's like nothing happened, and when he's all tucked away and belted up he can almost pretend that true for him as well. 

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Feb. 11th, 2011 08:54 am (local)

### Rule Ten (Part 108)

 

Eames is not sure how a night of drinking- which turned into a night of turned into a night of pot and cheese doodles- him painting little skeletons on Ariadne's toenails, but it probably means he's had too many, or she's had too many, or they're both too stoned to be allowed near paints, but he's too lazy to get up, and if he's down here anyways, he might as well finish.  
  
"You should put zombies on there too." Ari says, which is what all her friends call her, and Eames isn't sure he approves. Ariadne is a...a  _important_ sort of name. Like. You have to do something fucking amazing, with a name like that, right? Not like him. His name is basically some city in Iowa, except for that extra E, there. "Or ghosts." She adds after a long, hazy pause, and she wiggles her toes.  
  
"You going to charge to get into your shoes? Haunted old lady who lived in a shoe." Eames wipes his fingers off on his trousers. The rest of Ariadne's friends had toddled off somewhere, and he made noises about leaving, but then they were just sort of stretched out and the telly was memorizing, and now he's painting her toes.  
  
"I'd braid your hair if you had enough." She says. "Like a sleepover. We could talk about boys, and like, whoa, you know? And she said and he said and god such a  _bitch_ ." Her voice goes all high and valley girl and Eames laughs into her shin, because valley girls, seriously. He doesn't even know what that  _means_ right now, but it's funny. She laughs too and he smears a streak of white down her toe and wipes it off with the sleeve of his shirt.  
  
"Oh, hey." She pulls her feet away and shuffles over to the other side of the room. "Saved this for you from The Pile." She pulls out a roll of paper, and he takes it from her and rolls it out. It's his weird, crap portrait of Arthur, and it looks different, on the ground. The lines go different from this angle, until they don't make sense at all. He should look at more drawings like this. That's be cool. Be all like...drawing from an ant's point of view, or something.  
  
"You should keep that, so you can make fun of yourself later, right?"  
  
"Yeah." He says and lets the paper curl in on itself and flops down. He's not completely shit faced, but the alcohol buzz and the weed buzz are mingling until his bones have just sort of fucked off to wherever and the carpet feels better than anything he's ever felt before. He rubs his cheek against it and stretches out. "You got yourself a boy, then?"  
  
"Nope." She flops nearby, and the telly is still going, but its the shopping network, and while that's sort of hilarious, he can't keep track of the kitsch wheeling in front of him, so he doesn't try. He could seriously fall in love with this carpet. "Or girl, either. Or just...person shaped thing." She gestures into the air and when her arms fall, one lands over his stomach. "Which is cool, because I don't need that right now, but it means that I start like...falling in love with things."  
  
He grunts. He falls in love with things all the damn time. Like. Not...wanting to fuck Ming vases, or whatever, but, he'll just. Look at shit. And it'll be the best shit. And he won't think of it as falling in love, but he'll just be like. Yeah. It's the best shit.   
  
"Like, buildings. Man. I walked near this little brick coffeeshop the other day, and it looked like a photograph, like someplace that's nestled between these huge cubes, and it's this little pinched in place with big windows, and I just fell in love with it. You know? I wanted to shrink it down and put it in my pocket and keep it."  
  
"I think I fell in love with Arthur's feet." Eames says.  
  
"Kinky." She says and he laughs, because she doesn't even know, because dude. His harmless puppy dog crush, or whatever. That thing kids have on adults, or their friend's moms, or whatever, one of those things? Yeah, his got all out of control and with some guy who wants to tie him up and get all whips and chains, or whatever. He curls up on his side, because it's ridiculous, and he's a town in Iowa, and Ariadne is going to be like, a superhero, or something.  
  
"I have a question," he says, because nothing sounds stupid right now, he could talk about anything and it would be brilliant. "Are we friends now?"

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Feb. 11th, 2011 08:54 am (local)

### Rule Ten (Part 109)

 

She thinks about that, rolling onto her stomach, half onto him and stretches her arms forward. "When I was a kid, I would propose friendship. Like a wedding. Since you had friendship rings and everything, you should propose it, right?"  
  
"The divorce rate would go through the fucking roof, if you had to annul every friendship."  
  
"Yeah, but, then people would think about it before hand? If you had to sign paperwork and everything before you got rid of a friendship, you'd want to make sure it was something you wanted rid of. And then when it was done, it wouldn't be this awkward falling out. You just be done. No calling you up a year later for a ride because they're drunk, done. Over with. Finished." She cuts her hand down onto the carpet.  
  
Eames thinks about that, "but what if you're better off because they called you? What if you go and bond and become best friends again?"  
  
She considers this. "I'll friend-marry you if you hand me the cheese doodles."  
  
He rolls over and hands her the bag, and she takes out a handful, like you  _should_ , fuck if the cheese dust gets everywhere, you got to commit to the cheese doodle. You don't just pluck it out all dainty like. You got to be visceral with the cheese doodle. Get in there and go.  
  
"We should make friendship rings." She shoves herself up. "Hold on, I still totally remember how to do that. I went to camp and they always had the exact same arts and craft every single year. And it was on a week rotation and I'd be there  _all summer_ . Yarn. I need yarn."  
  
"That's terrible." He says and she is digging through her drawers and getting cheese dust all over shit, and she smearing her toenails and he caps the bottles and shoves them out of the way.  
  
"So first you marry me for my cheese doodle, then you propose with yarn. You're so cruel to me." He thinks a moment then goes back to snicker, " _Darling_ ."  
  
" _Darling._ " She drawls back and then they toss the word back and forth, like they're pulling taffy and it doesn't get any less funny when she finds yarn and teaches him how to braid them into sloppy, lopsided little loops and he puts his oatmeal colored piece of terrible onto her finger and it's far too big, so she puts it on her big toe and the skeletons are completely gone, and her's just barely squeezes around his pinkie finger.  
  
He sees the time as he's laughing. "Shit, I have to go."  
  
She cranes her neck to see the time. It's four am, and she huffs. "Fuck, I have a thing tomorrow. When did it get that early?"  
  
Eames is grabbing his stuff, and she gets up on her bed. "You can crash the night, if you need to."  
  
"Nah, I have a friend near here, it'll be fine."  
  
"Cool." She says and he's shoving his feet into his shoes without untying them, and locks the door as best he can behind him, stumbling out into the night.

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Feb. 11th, 2011 11:04 am (local)

# Rule Ten (Part 110)

Last BAM of the BAM. More BAM on the BAMorrow.  
  


He goes to Arthur's house, even though his mum lives closer to Ariadne by some reckoning. He's out walking anyway, and his feet just go. He isn't going to fight it. Can use the walk to sober up a bit, get some more exercise. He's been up since...fuck...five am yesterday morning, will have been up for a solid 24 hours by the time he gets to Arthur's, and he's giddy with pot and liquor, but a sleepy sort of giddy, like if he stops moving he'll just go right to sleep on someone.  
  
Maybe Arthur will be up late working and Eames can just sort of sit down next to him and fall asleep there, on the floor. Arthur won't even notice, when he's making corporate battle plans or whatever he does. He's explained his job to Eames at least six times, but it all sounds like mush to him. 9-5's are out of Eames' knowledge arena. Base. Whatever.  
  
Arthur will probably be in bed. Or walking up for the day? And he'll make Eames tend the lawn, but he's okay with that. Better then going to mum's and finding her in a state to talk, or have her getting up as he's coming in. She'd either notice and make a to-do, or just sort of smile and ask if he forgot something, and that is worse, maybe.  
  
Arthur house is dark, and his dog starts barking when he comes inside, shoving her face into his stomach as he shushes her. She always barks. She's a barker, but that's fine with him. Might drive the neighbors batshit, but they can go rot.  
  
Arthur is on the couch when Eames gets to it. Eames stops. There's not work around him, and the telly is off, so he just...went for a nap? Arthur doesn't nap. Was he waiting up for Eames? But Eames has a key.   
  
"What was he up to?" He asks his girl and she smiles at him like she has a secret and he runs his fingers through her fur, which is sort of addicting so he keeps doing it for awhile.  
  
Right, no, focus. Arthur. He should get Arthur to bed.   
  
"Hey," Eames says, crouching down, "Hey, come on, time for big boys to get into their big boy beds."   
  
Arthur squints awake. "Eames?"  
  
"Up we get." Eames gets him and Arthur leans on him, curls into him and Eames could get used to that. Eames could deal with that forever and a day. Arthur is still asleep, and Eames moves them to the stairs. His dog follows him to the bottom and then whines when he's out of reach.  
  
"One of you at a time." He says and Arthur yawns.  
  
"What time is it?"  
  
"It's probably better if you don't know." Eames gets Arthur's door open and sits him on the bed. Arthur hisses and rolls over onto his side. Eames frowns, "You bump into a doorknob or something."  
  
"It's probably better if you don't know." Arthur mumbles into the blanket and Eames leans down to get Arthur's shoes off. And once his shoes are off it's simple as anything to pull his socks off, and once his socks are off, well. There is feet are, in Eames hands and Eames smiles down at them. Arthur flexes his toes and Eames is still a bit off his head so he kisses Arthur's ankle, quick and easy and Arthur's breath hitches anyways.  
  
"You're drunk again, aren't you?"  
  
"Make it sound like I'm on a bloody 12-step. Me and Ariadne and her friends did a bit of a bar crawl, then went to hers for a smoke-out. Don't worry, I'll do the yard tomorrow."  
  
Arthur gets out of his shirt and trousers and then crawls under the covers, joints popping, movements considered and slow. Maybe he hurt something working out by himself. Eames frowns and sits on the edge of the bed. "You didn't pull a muscle or nothing, did you?"  
  
"I'm fine. Just. Did something dumb." Arthur watches him and Eames doesn't want to go, yet. The room is dark and quiet and Arthur skin is pale and it just keeps  _going_ and he wets his lips. Arthur keeps watching him and Eames curls up on his side, facing Arthur. Stays above the covers and everything and Arthur doesn't say anything, until he sighs and flaps the covers. "We need to talk tomorrow. Apparently."

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Feb. 11th, 2011 11:30 am (local)

### Rule Ten (Part 111)

Fucking LJ did put my MOAR TOMORROW icon up when I told it to, and we must all obey the icon. NOW IT'S MORE TOMORROW. Also my brother has informed me he's going to propose to his girlfriend, and I needed to inform someone. YOU LUCKY PEOPLE YOU.  
  
"What about?" Eames says, but gets under as fast as he can, and he doesn't even care what he looks like, because he's here, now, and he doesn't even need to sleep at the end of the bed.  
  
"I don't know." Arthur says. "Things. I'll figure it out tomorrow. Stuff. But you sleeping here comes with the condition that we need to talk tomorrow."  
  
"About stuff." Eames clarifies, and he can't help but think of his birthday, right then, of kissing until he couldn't anymore, and it was like a proper Christmas-at one of his mate's houses-where you eat until you can't anymore, and then wake up on Boxer Day and wonder why the fuck you didn't eat more while you could?  
  
"Yes. Stuff." Arthur is already falling asleep, and maybe he'll get that face tomorrow, the one Eames knows means  _this is bad, why did I do this, this was a bad idea_ and Eames tries not to take too personally. He doesn't  _succeed_ , but he tries.  
  
"Okay." Eames agrees, and they aren't touch, but Eames is okay with that. Mostly. Won't be able to sleep for shit, he doesn't know how to sleep with someone in the same bed, but he's fine where he is. He has to do lawn work whenever Arthur gets up, and he doesn't even know what lawnwork there is to  _do_ but Arthur is nefarious and he'll think of something. And it'll be more than a bitch, but he's here now, and it's warm, and Arthur is already sleep, like he didn't wake up properly and Eames stretches out along the bed, like it might toss him out, if he isn't careful and inches closer until Arthur's body heat is like fingers along his stomach, or a sunlamp, or beam, or something. For him. And he can close his eyes and bask in it.   
  
He's still...whatever'd. High,d runk, buzzed, pissed, he doesn't know. Off his tit, in any case and his breathing syncs up with Arthur like there isn't a problem in the world. He doesn't know what to do with himself, where to put his arms, or his legs, what to  _do_ , what if Arthur's staring at him? What if he rolls over, or starts...like...humping him in his sleep. That would be embarrassing.   
  
But the room smells like Arthur and he's  _right there_ , and it's not like Eames hasn't fallen asleep all over Arthur before.  
  
He inches his hand out and takes Arthur's, and Arthur's hand grasps onto his like a reflex and Eames smiles to himself and any talk is worth this. This is worth anything.

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Feb. 13th, 2011 06:45 am (local)

### Rule Ten (Part 112)

 

When Arthur wakes up Eames is curled around him like he’s the only thing worth having: head tucked under Arthur’s chin, one hand wrapped up around Arthur’s. Arthur is overheated, sweating, feet struggling out from under the covers just for a bit of a break. Arthur scratches the back of Eames head, his arm half asleep and Eames mumbles into his chest. He’s hard, which Arthur isn’t surprised by at all. He doesn’t actually mind, you don’t invite a teenage boy in to sleep with you and not expect morning wood.   
  
Eames rubs up one long line and his hips shudder forward. Arthur is not about to lie here and get humped, so he pulls on Eames’ ear before he can do it again. Eames grumbles and tightens his legs around Arthur and his hand squeezes tight and Arthur squeezes back. “Come on, wake up.”  
  
“Don’t want to.” Eames’ groans and curls up into Arthur’s hand and rubs his foot against Arthur’s. “It’s good here. Let’s stay here.” Eames has his eyes squeezed shut, and Arthur drags his fingers through the short scruff along the back of his neck. “You’re not convincing me otherwise, here.”  
  
“Your stomach is going to start growling soon. It’s been a whole…” Arthur looks at the clock, “five hours?”  
  
“Tired.” Eames presses his face down to Arthur’s chest. “Another hour, come on.”  
  
“No, we’re not sleeping the day away.” Arthur tugs Eames hair and then tries to get up and Eames squeezes tight before rolling onto his back and letting Arthur go except his hand, stretching out his arm as Arthur got up. Arthur tugged and Eames followed, rolling out of the bed as Arthur moved and Arthur laughed, because Eames was grinning all pleased and sleepy and he wasn’t giving up his grip on Arthur’s hand, like he’s a dog with a stick and he isn’t going to let go, it is his stick.  
  
“I can’t get dressed with you attached to me.”  
  
“Seriously, you need to work on your persuasive speaking skills.” Eames says, “You keep saying good things like they’re bad.”  
  
Arthur cocks an eyebrows and Eames doesn’t let go, just raises both his eyebrows and smirks, and Arthur wiggles his fingers.  
  
“I’ll consider your request for a loan of your hand if I get a promise that I’ll get it back when you finish dressing.” Eames strokes his thumb over Arthur’s knuckles.   
  
“Oh really. You’re loaning me  _my_ hand.”  
  
“I captured it.” Eames shrugs. “Those are the rules.”  
  
“Oh you get to make the rules now, do you?” Arthur stands between Eames legs. “I’m pretty sure that this how it’s supposed to go.”  
  
Eames just holds Arthur’s hand between the two of his own and taps his feet against the carpet. “Well, then consider this the first Eames’ rule. You capture it, you own it.”  
  
Arthur tries to control his reaction, but it like letting wet hay dry in a barn. Eventually it just combusts, high and fierce out of nowhere and Arthur pulls up until Eames is standing right in front of him, and still is holding his hand captive. “What about you then?”  
  
Eames cocks his head and Arthur twists his hand to grip Eames back and Arthur brings the knotted ball of their hands to his chest. “Who says I didn’t capture you first?”  
  
Eames’s hands spasm around his and the humor drops out of Eames expression, shatters on the floor, maybe, and Arthur is suddenly looking at something like the thesis behind words like  _need_ and  _desperation_ and  _longing_ , boiled down to look, and then it’s fumbled and gone as Eames looks away before Arthur can really appreciate what he was seeing and Eames let’s go. “Yeah, well.” Eames clears his throat. “I better go get changed. For the. Lawn. Stuff.”  
  
“Yes.” Arthur agrees, and Eames goes and Arthur watches the door close, and then turns to his closet and wishes, wishes specifically, for the day when he and Eames can joke without getting too close to something that will ruin it. He’s basically dating Eames in all but name and sex, and he would do it in name if it wouldn’t get him put in prison, and he would do the sex if it wasn’t morally corrupt and it’s like he’s tuck in the exact same place he always is and if he could either be a worse or better person that he is—if he could be the hero or the monster of the story—then at least their would be forward motion. But no. He’s going to be stuck here until he forgets what the rest of the world is  _like_ .

 

 

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Feb. 13th, 2011 09:17 am (local)

### Rule Ten (Part 113)

I'm not  _certain_ but you might want to get your fluff fics ready.  


“Oh _fuck_.” He hears Eames shout and comes out of the bedroom still buttoning his shirt and barefoot. Eames is staring down the stairs where his dog is halfway up and whining up at him.  
  
“How…what?” Arthur asks, because he’s fairly sure Eames didn’t pick her up and leave her there. “Did she climb up and then just…forget how?”  
  
“Come her you insane fucking dog.” Eames says, and picks her up and she licks at his ear like it might run off and leave her. “Did you get any sleep? What the fuck, dog?”  
  
She does wiggle out of his arms until Eames is shoving his feet into his shoes. “I’m going to take her for a walk first, alright?”   
  
“I’ll make breakfast.” Arthur says as Eames takes her outside and Arthur wonders if she’s been there all night, or just started up the stairs when she needed to go out for a walk. The vet gave her a clear bill of health, so he doesn’t think she physically can’t get up the stairs. Still. It’s a bit odd, but she’s Eames to deal with, and he trust Eames to figure it out for himself. She likes Arthur well enough, sits near him while he works, and he’ll play with her when he needs a break from his work (he’s not a machine, despite accusations otherwise), but it’s clear that she loves Eames. She never tries to follow Arthur up the stairs, just goes to her mat when she’s tired, and while she meets them both at the door, it’s Eames she barks about and Arthur she sniffs in a friendly enough matter and then shoves her face out behind him to see if he brought Eames too.  
  
They need to start preparing the flowerbed so he can have his vegetable garden, because why on earth would you pay for fresh vegetables when you can grow them? Sure, no one on earth needs as much zucchini as he always ends up getting, but that’s why his mom’s zucchini bread recipe exists. For just that sort of overflow, and Eames’ stomach solves basically any problem relating to a food surplus.   
  
And then they can talk while they’re working. As that would be easier than just sitting around. It’s better to have conversations while _doing_ things. He doesn’t know what they’re supposed to be talking about, exactly, but maybe Eames does? Or, rather, he should let Eames steer the conversation, so it can be about…whatever he needs it to be about. Kink, or sexuality, or…his little brother, or just…his life. Eames used to talk a lot more before they decided to do this. Thing. They’re doing. Before it became about impressing Arthur, which is the anti-thesis of what Arthur wants, he doesn’t need impressing. He just…wants things to be okay. Eames looks at Arthur like Eames could be in orbit around him if Arthur would just pull him a little closer, and that isn’t what Arthur wants. Physics, equal forces, the earth pulls you down and you pull it, but it has more mass so you don’t effect it. He wants himself and Eames to have equal sway, to move in the same direction and not just collide and shatter and…whatever bodies in space do when they collide at high speed.   
  
He wonders exactly when he forgot physics.   
  
But there’s no way to _say_ all that. He can’t _make_ Eames do things for his own sake, you can make people do things, you can’t decide _why_ they do them, though.   
  
Arthur would love to give Eames what he wants (and, obviously, himself as well. He’s not doing this out of charity. If he weren’t so selfish he would have let Eames’ down ages ago so Eames could go have _normal human relationships_ ) except they aren’t answerable only to themselves, and they don’t get to just live in this house and never leave. And he’s been here before, he’s trapped in the exact same through process and he’s worn it to the bedrock and it’s _not getting any simpler_ , down so deep the sunlight is a memory and he’s just been hacking away at the same verse of the same old song. He can’t leave it where it lies and let the ball stay in Eames’ court, and he can’t _do anything_ , so he’s just _stuck here_. Can’t scene: from either direction, can’t talk to anyone else without thinking about Eames, can’t do any of the things he normally does to clear his mind, he’s just stuck, running in the same hamster wheel and never, ever _getting_ anywhere.

 

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Feb. 13th, 2011 10:03 am (local)

### Rule Ten (Part 114)

Did I say how many brothers Arthur had? THIS FIC IS TOO LONG.  
  
And this is his problem. This has always been his problem. He doesn’t  _let things go_ , he thinks things through until their pierced and pinned and solved, and then he presses the reset button, jumps onto the next topic. But the button’s jammed and he can’t go anywhere in his own head. The door is shut and now his thoughts are inbreeding, and nothing is letting any air in.  
  
Maybe he should go away for a week or two. Force himself out of the situation, introduce himself into new problems, because if he just keeps staying here then he’s probably going to go insane. His work is going to suffer for it—maybe it already has. And he isn’t help Eames, any, he needs to push him, a little. If things keep being so comfortable here then Eames isn’t going to try and settle anywhere else. Yeah he has some new names in his vocabulary, but Eames needs people he can depend on, and you don’t get those sorts of friends by going out for drinks once a week.   
  
He could go back home. It’s been awhile, and one of his brothers lives nearby so he can pop between the two families and not get overwhelmed by either. He can see his niece, get her feather boas that leave little feathers everywhere, and a whole bag of various noisemakers just to be a jerk, it should…not be relaxing. He doesn’t want relaxing. But distracting, which is what he needs at the moment. He can take off work, he’s got…an unspeakable amount of vacation days, and if nothing else, he telecommutes all the time.  
  
And Eames will still have the house key, of course—will, if Arthur knows Eames, sleep over here more than anywhere else—he’ll still have a place, because Arthur would never leave Eames with the feeling that he has nowhere to go, because Arthur had that at college once or twice, freshman year, wherein his roommate was so unattractive in terms of personality and didn’t respond well to any of Arthur’s attempt to get him to  _fucking shower_ and he hadn’t made any connections yet, and it was freezing out and everywhere was closed because it was one of those towns where  _everything_ shuts down at 5pm except the places which card, and he’d look around campus and there wouldn’t be a single fucking place he could go and there’s a certain dragging feeling that comes with that. Something like being homesick, and something like being lonely, and something like  _what the fuck is wrong with me that there is nowhere I can be right now_ .  
  
So his house will be here, if nothing else.   
  
He’s not abandoning him. He just…he can’t keep running around in impotent little circles thinking  _Eames, Eames, Eames_ and not be able to do anything, because he’s not the sort of person who  _waits_ , except this situation requires it and he needs to go before he snaps and drags Eames in over both their heads and they drown in it. So, he’ll give notice, tell his mother (and she’ll be delighted), make his arrangements and go. And Eames will be fine, if Arthur doesn’t want Eames to grow depeandant, then he needs to remove himself, needs to let Eames figure this out for himself for a bit.  
  
But how long does he need to be away for it to matter? More than a week, that’s for sure. So, several weeks away. Three? He can visit his parents, and then each of his brothers for a bit. So. Three or four weeks. A month. A month should be long enough, right? Give them both enough room to breathe, force his brain to think about  _anything else_ , because he’s dropping into his headspace, and he can’t let off any steam, and this is going to end in something terrible if he doesn’t change something.  
  
So. They’ll talk about. That’s what they’ll talk about. Eames is not going to be happy about it, but it’s for the best. And he would ask Eames opinion except Eames is just going to want Arthur to stay and Eames doesn’t know what it’s like, in Arthur’s head right now, cramped and dark and claustrophobic, like he’s stuck in a cave-in and he just needs to let a little air in. That’s all he wants, to just let enough air in so he can breathe.  
  
Eames comes back in and his dog says close by in case Eames decides he wants to go up the dreaded staircase again and leave her. “Waffles, awesome.” 

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Feb. 13th, 2011 11:43 am (local)

### Rule Ten (Part 115)

This fic needs more masturbation.  
  


Arthur hadn’t realized he’d been making waffles, but Eames is setting the table and Arthur is pouring the batter into the already well-conditioned iron. “So, what’s on the docket?"  
  
“Prepare the flower beds and the vegetable garden.” Arthur answers as Eames changes his dog’s water and fills her bowl for breakfast. “You have a name for her, yet?”  
  
Eames shrugs and grabs the syrup down from the shelf and Arthur figures it’ll happen when it means to happen. He’ll leave for a month. A month is a nice, clear unit of measurement. And if something is wrong, if Eames needs him, he can always come back.  
  
Arthur gives Eames the first waffle and works on the second one while Eames pours a truly disgusting amount of syrup over the golden crust and digs in, shoving a fourth of the waffle into his mouth in one bites and chewing, all chipmunk cheeked and Arthur snorts and figures the second waffle will also go to Eames. Which is fine. Since Eames is going to be doing all the lawnwork. For a while.   
  
And Eames can eat all the food in the house, and it should probably be enough. Should he leave money? He should leave money, because Eames eats like it’s going out of style, and Arthur—who used to go shopping once everything three weeks, now goes for weekly trips because otherwise milk would be a strange unheard of concept only possessed by strange other cultures. He should leave Eames money.   
  
And talk about this. They’ll talk about this. Of course he is. He’s not just going to leave. They’ll talk about it. But, fuck.   
  
“These are good.” Eames says when he finishes the waffle off. “Your waffles always are like, waffle house perfect. If you hadn’t decided to be big bad corporate wolfman you could have made awesome money making people waffles. You’d be all, Waffle King all taste your syrup and despair.”  
.  
Is syrup jizz or, what, in your head?” Arthur asks, and Eames sticks his tongue out, and it’s not like Arthur is doing that thing he was doing before. Doing something for Eames’ without thinking about it, because it’s only partially for Eames’ benefit. Yes, it will help him, yes it’s for the best, but he he’s been bashing himself against the same brick wall for three months now, and he’s just got bruises for the effort, and if he doesn’t do something else he honestly doesn’t know what he’ll do. He just… he isn’t helping. Can’t help. Like this. Not when he’s like this. He doesn’t think about it, but if he checked? If he stopped…making waffles and plans and jokes, and thought about it?   
  
It’s not like this, not  _exactly_ , but he just. Eames is frustrating. He’s frustrating and he’s sad, and fuck it, Eames  _needs him_ , and Arthur can’t have him, and he knows, he  _knows_ he can’t have him because of his own rules and guidelines, which is so much worse than if he couldn’t have him for a million other outside factors, but underneath the rules and order and lines he’s just this…pit of greedy, envious hands and he wants to drag Eames down and keep him there, and all the reasons why he shouldn’t? All those good and honest reasons—that Eames needs to be his own man and not need Arthur, that he needs support systems, and friends and people he can depend on when things get too intense? All those reasons? The greedy pit doesn’t give a shit. It wants Eames, and the idea of Eames being stuck in here with him like some sort of Gothic horror and the idea of Eames needing him, needing only  _ever_ him, isn’t as nauseating as it should be, isn’t all ipecac and bile, but has that edge, that vicious sweet edge of  _tantalizing_ and that? That isn’t even what he’s afraid of. he knows he can say no to that. Knows that’s wrong. That’s like the devil showing up all in horns and cloven hooves, you can look at that and know that you need to get away.   
  
It’s that sneaky, insidious little thought that if he drags Eames down, if he wraps Eames up and keeps him safe and make sure he knows he’s wanted and needed and cared for, oh, then he can make Eames  _happy_ . That’s the one in the disguise. Not safe. Not sane. And if you aren’t those two, then the consensual is out of the question, called  _into_ question. 

 

[ **skellerbvvt** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Feb. 13th, 2011 12:05 pm (local)

### Rule Ten (Part 115b)

I tried to write more, and then it didn't work. So. MOAR TOMORROW  
  
So he needs to leave. He know he wouldn’t do anything. But he doesn’t…want…to think like this. Hiding from the monsters in his closet and under his bed and afraid to move in case one of them sees him. So he needs some light and some air and make room for  _coherent thought_ , because what is happening now is not anywhere near acceptable.  
  
“So, she climbs stairs just fine outside. We went up and down the ones in the park like, six times, and she was fine. So she knows how to use stairs, and she isn’t having hip problems, or whatever. So I think maybe she just wasn’t allowed up the stairs with her old owners and they were fuckheaded bastard about it, so.” Eames shrugs. “You said she was a rescue dog, right? So she probably just…” Eames gets her by one ear and she struggles to get into his lap and he laughs as she gets up and pants down at him. He wraps his arms around her. “I can’t get to my waffle, you crazy bitch.”  
  
“It’s possible.” Arthur says. “Hurry up and finish. I need my indentured servant ready to do all the heavy lifting.”  
  
“So cruel.” Eames grumbles.   
  
“Rules are rules.” Arthur says. “You come here less than sober, you do lawnwork. You knew that when you came over.”  
  
“Worth it.” Eames is moving his dog’s face away so she stops trying to lick the syrup off his face. “Come on, get off. You’re not a lapdog. Getoff.”  
  
He’ll be fine. Eames will be fine. 

 

#  [**persephone_il**](http://persephone-il.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Feb. 4th, 2011 09:07 pm (local)

This is a comment fic. It loves you and wants your attention.

 

### Future!fic. Set when everything is happy.

  
  
It's late when Eames gets back from Ariadne's birthday party. That means that all the lights are out at Arthur's house. Eames tries not to feel put out as well. After all, he knew Arthur will likely be asleep when he came back. Arthur has work tomorrow.  
  
Eames goes to his room first, to take his clothes off. Sammy's on his bed, snoring in soft little doggy-huffs, and Eames pets her before he leaves the room.  
  
Then he lingers at the door to Arthur's bedroom. Not because he's uncertain if he's allowed inside (Arthur gave him specific permission, Eames asked before he left for the party). Definitely not because he's uncertain he  _wants_ to come inside, because that's just plain ridiculous.  
  
But he might wake Arthur up. Arthur has work tomorrow, and Arthur has a hard time falling back asleep once he's woken up. If Eames makes too much noise, that could mean Arthur would be tired and cranky tomorrow. Eames doesn't want that.  
  
So he's extra-careful opening the door. It doesn't creak because Arthur oils the hinges regularly, and sometimes he makes Eames do it because he likes watching Eames get messy.  
  
Arthur's face is turned away from the door. He's got the covers pulled up around him, in a way that Eames never knew anyone could manage, so that the corners are still tucked into the bed frame. Eames can't slide under the blanket without either pulling them out or waking Arthur up.  
  
So he does the next best thing, crawling carefully to lie curled up at the foot of the bed. He's done that a bunch of time, he can sleep fine like that. It's a little colder than Eames likes best, but it's not bad. He's got Arthur's feet keeping him company, and he can keep  _them_ company, so it's all nice and friendly-like.   
  
From under the blanket, one of said feet is poking at Eames' chest. "Hey," Arthur says. Apparently he's not actually asleep. "Get in here."  
  
Eames tries to keep from smiling his biggest, goofiest smile, but he can't really help himself. So he slides under, pulling the blanket out and away, and there's some undignified wriggling until the blanket's covering both of them.  
  
Arthur says, "Hey," again, quiet. There are streetlights shining through the window, so Eames can see his face now. Serious, but not bad-serious. Just... thinking, maybe. Then he takes Eames' hands between his and frowns. "You're cold."  
  
"A little." He won't be for long, though. Arthur puts out heat like a furnace. Under the blankets it's hot enough that it feels like summer, in spite of the cold air on his face. Then Arthur puts Eames' hands on his chest, he makes Eames  _touch_ him, and Eames can't feel the cold at all when he's doing that.  
  
Arthur brushes a hand over Eames' newly-formed erection. "Looking to do something about that?" It's half a challenge, half a genuine question.  
  
"Isn't it late for you?" Eames knows it is. Doesn't stop him from hoping.  
  
Arthur laughs a little, just a quiet thing, barely more than an exhalation. "You could hold on to that," Arthur says. "When are you coming home tomorrow?"  
  
And this – just this, that Arthur can say  _home_ and neither of them will start twitching or justifying or anything. Just. Home. Eames can call Arthur's house that. That's good.  
  
Also, Arthur asked a question. Eames suppresses his first answer, which is  _Whenever you want_ , because it sounds pathetic and also he promised Ariadne they'll go for ice cream. It's her birthday. Birthdays are important. So Eames says, "Dunno. Seven?"  
  
"All right." Arthur bends his head forward, so their faces are nearly touching. "I'll be here. And then we'll see."  
  
Eames nods. If he keeps touching Arthur, he'll start hurting soon. That's okay, though. He wants that. They both do. "Goodnight kiss?" he says, ever hopeful.  
  
Arthur kisses him on the cheek. "Ask me again tomorrow."  
  
And the thing is, Eames doesn't know if he'll get off tomorrow. He isn't even hoping for it, exactly, because if he doesn't then he'll get to carry that frustration around for however long Arthur wants him to, a small concentrated ache that's all for Arthur. And that's. Yeah. Eames will do that.

 

[ **persephone_il** ](http://persephone-il.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Feb. 7th, 2011 07:03 am (local)

### I believe there was some discussion of spanky!fic (1/3)

Future!fic. Also, I was listening to  [ this ](http://www.echoschildren.org/CDlyrics/WeddingPromises.html) when I was plotting it. I'm telling you, there's something wrong with my brain.  
  
It's a good thing Arthur isn't the type to slam doors. If he were, there's a good likeliness his house wouldn't have survived this week. As it is, he stands outside his own front door for a full minute, trying to steady his breathing.  
  
Then he comes in and all the air goes out of him, for no other reason than – Eames. Eames is sitting at the dining table, head bowed over something, scratching with a pencil. Arthur finds himself laughing weakly, not because anything is funny, just because that's what his lungs decide to do at the moment.  
  
He kisses the back of Eames' neck, long and lingering, and wraps his arms around Eames' shoulders. Eames leans into it, like he always does, like he has a special gravitational force that applies to Arthur only.  
  
Arthur lets his forehead rest on the back of Eames' head for a moment, then goes to make tea. Eames returns to what he was doing – homework or artwork or something else, if Eames wants Arthur's involvement he'll ask. Arthur can trust Eames to do that now.  
  
He takes his time making tea, motions careful and precise, falling into the comfortable routine of it. Rooibos tea, with cinnamon and vanilla, no sugar. Arthur sits across the corner from Eames, drinks and half-closes his eyes, lets his head fall back against the wall.  
  
"Bad day?" Eames asks. He's looking at Arthur from the corner of his eye, head still bowed.   
  
Arthur squeezes his eyes shut for a moment.  
  
"Eames. Could you do something for me?"  
  
When Arthur opens his eyes, Eames is looking at him, expectant, as if what Arthur just asked was a completely rhetorical question. It would take something on the magnitude of a large natural disaster for that  _not_ to send a shiver through Arthur, but he puts that aside for now. Until he calms down completely, he can't touch Eames.  
  
Well, touch him, of course. But not  _touch_ him. Arthur can't ever lay an angry hand on him – not won't but  _can't_ , stopped at a visceral level that comes before making an actual decision.   
  
So Arthur keeps the distance between them and pulls a handful of photos from his briefcase. "You see the people in the center?" Eames nods. "Cut the edges around them. I want something that looks like a passport photo."  
  
Eames nods again. He has a steel ruler beside him on the table, and he uses it to draw sharp neat lines on the glossy paper. He doesn't bother with scissors, just jots a firm line down then uses the ruler to tear off the edges. He slides the finished products over to Arthur.  
  
Arthur doesn't mean to sigh. It comes out more like a hiss in any case. "Now, could you give me  _one_ plausible reason," he says, "that a grown man with a college education can't do what you just did?"

 

[ **persephone_il** ](http://persephone-il.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Feb. 7th, 2011 07:06 am (local) I believe there was some discussion of spanky!fic (2/3)

 

Eames' mouth twitches into a smile. "Your company is hiring morons?"  
  
"Stop being right," Arthur says, sliding down in the chair, suddenly exhausted. "They just kept asking questions," he says. "Why do I need it. Why can't we do it in Photoshop. Did I want something  _artistic_ ."  
  
Eames laughs at that, and Arthur smiles at him with all the warmth he doesn't have to hold back anymore.   
  
See, Eames isn't the type to follow orders unquestioningly. If clarifications are needed, he asks; if Eames thinks something is fucking stupid, he says so. Yet with all his stupid teenage antagonism, Eames can do what needs to be done better than half of Arthur's direct underlings. And all right, Arthur may be biased, but there's a reason he got biased in the first place.  
  
Then Eames slides to kneel on the carpet, rubbing his cheek against Arthur's knee. "Blowjob?"  
  
Arthur lets his hand sink into Eames' hair, rubbing soft circles on his skull. "You shouldn't offer when I'm wound up like this." Not harsh. Eames is still learning. He has a right to ask.  
  
Eames doesn't answer. Just stays where he is and lets Arthur run his hands all over his head and his scalp, down his neck to his shoulders, petting Eames and feeling the anger drain away from him like an earthed electric charge.  
  
There's another charge building, though. A slow grin spreads over Arthur's face, then fades away into the blank calmness that settles over him like a mantle.  
  
"Eames." His pull on Eames' hair is gentle, but no less demanding for it. "Stand up."  
  
Eames looks up at him and grins. "And if I don't want to?"  
  
"You want to." The next pull is hard enough to hurt, and Eames obliges him, getting to his feet. He's still slouching, though, and that expression is just about insufferable.  
  
"Whatcha gonna do?" Eames tilts his head. "Make me?"  
  
Arthur breathes, " _Yes_ ," and they are  _on_ .  
  
Eames puts up a good fight when Arthur pins him to the wall. Still a little untrained, still rough around the edges, but he'll be better. Arthur's teaching him to be. Soon he'll be effectively stronger than Arthur, but that won't matter. It's never really Arthur's arms keeping Eames in place, after all.  
  
He says, "Stay still," and Eames shivers and melts up into his hands, like water suddenly running uphill. Arthur holds Eames' wrists in one hand, pinning them to the wall, while the other runs down Eames' flank, appreciative. He's bulking up. He's going to be pretty fucking impressive soon.  
  
Right now, though, Eames is beautiful. Arthur suspects Eames always will be, to him, and it's got less to do with the muscles and the lips. It's not even the eyes. It's what's behind them. Eames is fucking amazing, and Arthur tells him so as he hunts for the rope and winds it around Eames' wrists. Arthur pulls the knot tight, methodical, looking at Eames to check for discomfort.  
  
If there’s any, Eames isn't feeling it. Eames is smiling, the soft curve of his mouth pulling wider, eyelids drooping like he's sleepy. "Hey," Arthur says. "You with me?"  
  
Eames turns his head, slowly, and blinks at Arthur as if to say  _Where else would I be?_ He licks his lips and says, "Yeah," in that slow, scratchy voice that makes Arthur want to do  _everything to him_ .  
  
For now, Arthur starts with tying the rope to the pull up bar they hung in the doorway to his room. That thing takes Eames' weight on a daily basis, no reason for it to fail now. Arthur leaves just enough give for Eames to stand on his toes.  
  
He kisses Eames briefly, a promise and a threat combined, and goes to find that ruler.

 

[ **persephone_il** ](http://persephone-il.livejournal.com/) wrote:

Feb. 7th, 2011 07:10 am (local)

### I believe there was some discussion of spanky!fic (3/3)

 

By the time Arthur comes back Eames is already halfway gone, breathing in short, fast gulps of air, pants so obviously tented at the crotch that it has to hurt.  
  
Arthur runs a hand down Eames' thigh. "Should I take your pants off?" He slaps that thigh with the ruler, lightly, just to give Eames a clue.  
  
Eames blinks. There's a faint sheen of sweat on his face. "Pants," he croaks, then clears his voice. "If you take them off, I'll." He swallows.  
  
Arthur rubs two fingers across Eames' jaw, and waits for the rest of the sentence.  
  
"I'll come," Eames says. "If you take anything off me."  
  
Arthur nods, taking that in. That would be gorgeous, making Eames come apart here and now, but he doesn't want that. Not yet. He whaps Eames again with the ruler. "How many?"  
  
The curve of Eames' smile is sweet, like a private victory for both of them. "Ten," he says. "No, fifteen."  
  
"Ten it is," Arthur says, dryly, and swings.  
  
He's not trying to spare Eames. Eames can take it, loves that he can take it, will ask for more than he wants just so he can bear it for Arthur.   
  
Arthur lands the strikes in an even pattern, across Eames' ass and the backs of his thighs. He doesn't make Eames count. Eames gets the numbers mixed up when he can call up the words at all, and that's just unpleasant for everyone involved. Instead, Arthur counts, because whenever he speaks Eames twitches, harder than he does when he's struck.  
  
Soon it's done. Eames sags, letting the rope take his weight. He looks like he ran ten miles. Then he raises his eyes at Arthur, and there's so much joy there that Arthur doesn't know what to do with it, what to do with himself except kiss Eames. He can't put everything into it, all the things he wants to give Eames, to make that glow burn up inside him until Eames shines like Arthur knows he can.   
  
He can try, though, so he does, kissing and kissing Eames until he goes completely pliant, his breathing even and calm. Eames is like putty in his hands when Arthur takes him down. Heat-seeking putty, pushing into Arthur's touch, flowing over him until they both end up on the floor with Arthur sitting up against the wall and Eames' head in his lap.  
  
They stay like this until Eames blinks aware and twists to look up at Arthur. "Hey."  
  
"Hey, yourself," Arthur says. "How about dinner?"  
  
Eames nuzzles into Arthur's stomach. "How about a shag?"  
  
Arthur pretends to think. "Tell you what. Help me make dinner now, and then you can come to bed with me."  
  
"Can I, now," Eames says, but there's no mistaking the brilliance of that expression.   
  
Arthur kisses him, just for a minute, then gets up and makes Eames wash the bell peppers and peel the carrots while he fries the ground beef for the bolognaise sauce.

 

Posted by  [ **skellerbvvt.livejournal.com** ](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

Eames has spent an hour mixing potting soil, fertilizer, compost and dirt in large quantities while Arthur watches from the patio, drinking fruit punch and shouting out commands, which are not the kind of commands Eames wants, but he's shirtless and Arthur is looking and his dog is running around after squirrels and robins.   
  
"Why can't we just plant them in the dirt that's already there?" Eames asks. "They're plants, right? They grow in dirt? What's wrong with that dirt?"  
  
"They, like you, need a balanced diet." Arthur says, calm as anything. "Raised beds allow for better drainage and stronger root systems. After that you can put the fence up."   
  
"Aren't we supposed to be talking?" Eames asks, "About something? Stuff, I believe, you so helpfully called it." Eames stays layering the soil on down of the already tilled bed, keeping it loose and grumbling to himself.   
  
Arthur taps his fingers on the glass and leans forward, elbows on his knees, watching him. "Yes."  
  
"So. What are we talking about?"  
  
"What do you want to talk about?" Arthur retorts and Eames wonders when he went from gardening to a therapy session and he huffs, sneezing at the smell of compost and fertilizer.   
  
"You're the one who says we need to talk. That sort of hints there's something you want to talk _about_." Eames spreads the soil out evenly over the massive vegetable plot that he already had to hack up and weed and break down and he's _starving_  
  
"We more need to talk because that time I tried to get you to talk with someone else didn't work out like I wanted."  
  
Eames pauses and then leans on his shovel to stare at Arthur. "You mean...sex stuff. You want to talk about sex stuff?"  
  
Arthur clears his throat, and he doesn't look uncomfortable, exactly, or embarrassed, just...not as comfortable as he normally looks. Not as steady and he normally is. And that's a bit gratifying right there, that Arthur can be rocked off his center. Or maybe is disquieting. Eames can't decide if he likes it or not. He'll worry about it later.  
  
"I figured you might have some questions." Arthur rolls his glass between his hands. "I'll answer what I can. Or listen. Or... whatever you need."  
  
Eames goes back to shoveling. "Why?"  
  
"Why what?"  
  
"Why do we need to talk about it now? You aren't doing anything to me now, so I don't see why it matters."  
  
"You asked about being gay even though I'm not _doing anything_ to you. How is that different."  
  
But the thing about that had been it had just been a thing. Something to talk about. Something to distract him. It's not like. He didn't really. It wasn't _not_ a big deal, exactly, but it was probably a bigger deal to someone who wasn't him. Guys who really thought this shit out and decided what being gay _meant_ or whatever, that it was this...big deal. And it wasn't like it _wasn't_ , Eames wasn't saying that it wasn't a big deal, and, you know it was just. It wasn't like anything in his life changed, really, except he wanted to drag Arthur down and never come up for air, and he was too busy focusing on all the obstacles of that bit to worry about the mechanics or society or whatever.  
  
He'd worry about it later.  
  
"What do you think I should know? Maxwell tried to explain and then he sort of...sucked...at it."  
  
Arthur sighed. "It's complicated."  
  
"How'd you get involved, then?" Eames finishes with the bed and sits down next to Arthur grabbing his own full glass and draining it, then lying back while his dog sniffed around the garden bed. She'd helped him dig up the garden once she saw what he was doing, and that had been sort of hilarious. "Or did you spring, fully formed from the ground, a great and majestic Dom Tree."  
  
Arthur snorts and leans back in the lawn chair. "I found it on the Internet. Well." He considers a moment. "I was bossy in bed, first."  
  
"Really? No." Eames rubs his arms which are sore from exertion and he wants a shower and a nap and they can have this talk on the couch or something. He wants to hear it, he just wants to hear it when he's _awake_.

 

####  [ Re: Rule Ten (Part 117) ](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3508650#cmt3508650)

on 2011-02-14 04:27 am (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

More Tomorrow. Blame Minecraft  
  
"Sex is...messy. And awkward and I didn't like that. I wanted it to have some sense of order, not a lot of _where do I put my hands_ and _what am I supposed to be doing_. There's something to be said for exploring, but without structure I can't enjoy it. And one guy asked how long I'd been Scene. No idea what it meant, so I researched it. It was just...straightforward." Arthur's voice goes sort of distant and when Eames looks over Arthur has a half sort of...not smile.   
  
"You like...this...because it's _straightforward_?"  
  
"You have clearly defined roles, both parties discuss what they want and need, and what they don't. You know what they want from you, you know what you want to do to them. You can focus on the moment. There's still room for awkwardness and failure, of course, but there's _rules_ and _etiquette_. You talk before, you talk after, if someone wants to stop then you just _do_ , it isn't...fuzzy. There are lines."  
  
Arthur goes quiet and Eames considers this. It's not surprising, not really, but Eames would have thought the ability to _control_ a scene, or situation, or whatever would be the attractive part, for Arthur. Arthur liked things to go his way, not, in like, a spoiled little princess way. Arthur liked things neat, he liked everything to be in its place so he could find. So it would save time.   
  
Well, okay, yeah, Arthur controls things so that they'll be tidy, not for the sake of controlling them. Eames goes to bed at a certain time. Eames can't smoke. If Eames comes over in a state, he has to do something to restore order. He just hadn't thought about it like that, exactly. Why Arthur liked things to be his way.  
  
"So it's, what? Just an order, thing?"  
  
"If I know what to expect and what is on and off limits then I can enjoy myself more." Arthur looks at Eames. "Which is part of the reason we need to talk _before_ we start doing anything, because the moment I say we can, we will. And you won't want to talk, then."  
  
Eames swallows and Arthur smiles, the quiet, indulgent sort of one? And then looks up at the sky. "And since you don't _know_ what you like and what you don't-other than the obvious and the basics-we need to talk about it first."  
  
"How am I supposed to know if I _don't_?"  
  
"We can experiment some, later, with things that interest you and I'm not against. I won't do anything too dangerous. And I'm not much into the technical stuff. Medical play? Completely beyond me."  
  
"What? Like...playing doctor?"  
  
"Only with actual medical supplies, usually." Arthur says and Eames doesn't now what happens all with that. Like... Arthur coming in in a lab coat and checking his pulse and then giving him his medicine via cock, sure, or like... that sort of thing, yeah. But not... catheters and IV's and shit. "I don't mind trying out things you're interested in that I'm not."  
  
"What are you into?" Eames sits up and puts his arm over the lawn chair handle, because Maxwell wouldn't tell him, but maybe he can get it from the horses mouth. Big muscle-y guys he knows, but not what Arthur wants to do with them. Him. And Eames doesn't care, not really. He'll do it. He'll do it to the ground, because it's Arthur, he just wants to know before hand so he can research it. Get good at it, if at all possible, if it's something you can get good at. Or, like, prepare himself mentally? Something. he just wants to _know_.  
  
"This isn't about me-"  
  
"Fuck that." Eames says. "You're the experienced one, so we're going to end up doing what you like first anyways because I won't have any ideas, or, well, I _will_ , because I do. I have loads of ideas, but you'll have this, routine, right? And I'm just...I mean you'll do what you do best and I'll go with it, for the first few times, right? So I should get to know what that is."  
  
"This is about you, though."   
  
"Yeah. It's about me. And _I_ want to know what _I'm_ in for when you finally decide it's no longer morally corrupt to fuck _me_." Eames steals Arthur's drink and finishes it off and puts it aside. "So you should tell _me_."  
  
"You're incorrigible." Arthur shoves his hand against Eames forehead and pushes and Eames just grins, because that means he's won.

 

####  [ THIS IS THE SKELETON OF A COMMENTFIC I CANNOT ACTUALLY WRITE ](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3514538#cmt3514538)

on 2011-02-14 09:12 am (UTC)

Posted by [**agenttrojie.livejournal.com**](http://agenttrojie.livejournal.com/)

I just have all these *desperate speculative thoughts* about this fic.  
  
So in my head, Arthur would go away, like you have him planning to, and Eames basically stays at his house, and tries so hard to behave, he really does, and he does really really well, but one night it's just too much, and he has to go to bed and have a wank, but he's not really thinking straight.   
  
So he ends up in Arthur's bed. Doesn't even really know why, but he does. And he sort of starts having a wank, and he swears to himself, he's going to change the sheets, no, really he will.   
  
But he can't. Y'know. Get off. He needs something he doesn't have. So he phones Arthur. He feels bad for doing it, but fuck, Arthur told him that if he needed something, he should ask for it, and he left his phone number, so ...  
  
So Eames dials it, and he still has one hand on his cock, the phone next to his ear on the pillow, and Arthur picks up and asks what the matter is, it's past midnight, is everything okay?  
  
And Eames says, 'Please, Arthur, I need ...'  
  
And Arthur asks, 'What do you need?' with his serious voice on, because he _knows_ , he can pick up on it in Eames's wrecked voice.  
  
And Eames says, trying not to beg, 'I need you to tell me I can come.'

 

####  [ Re: Rule Ten (Part 118) ](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3520938#cmt3520938)

on 2011-02-15 01:45 am (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

I figured how to use Mods in Minecraft. This bad news for you.  
  
Arthur flops back into the chair and then covers his eyes with his forearm and breathes a moment. "I like wrestling." He says after a moment, quiet, like he doesn't want anyone to hear them. Or, maybe, if he says it too loud he'll scare Eames off or something. "I like the physical struggle. Not of someone trying to get away, I don't...I don't want that. But like they're trying to beat me, and then I win."  
  
"And if you don't win?"  
  
"I always win." Arthur says, taking his arm away and turning to look at Eames. "Not because I'm this amazing martial arts master, I haven't put the time in for that. It's usually just that the person I'm with doesn't want to win. We just want the excuse. They want to lose and I want to win. Or, they want to be held down and I want to keep them there."  
  
Eames is probably being really obvious about it right now, but he can't mind, because if Arthur wants him down, he'll go down. If Arthur wants him to try and get the best of him, he will, but he'll go down, face right into the carpet. Anyone else and Eames would fuck them up (he doesn't get in fights. Not often. But when he does, he does it to _win_ ), but if Arthur wants him pinned, Eames will go.   
  
"And?"  
  
"Once pinned I usually like to...tie them up. Somehow. Not full bondage by any means, but usually get their hands, or their legs, or just...something to prove I've won and they've lost. After that it's just...I tell them what to do, and they either do it, or I make them. It's hard to explain." Arthur rubs the back of his head. "I just enjoy engaging, struggling, I guess, with someone physically, and then mentally. It's...I just like it." Arthur runs his hands down the back of his neck and holds on like he needs to grip onto something. "That's usually all I want. The rest of the scene gets filled out with what the sub wants and need and I work that in there. Punishment, rewards, verbal commands, roleplaying-on occasion-but I'm sort of a bare bones kind of guy. I don't like too many toys, I don't like too many external factors, I just..." He looks at Eames and Eames swallows because he feels pinned down already. "I just like when things are where I put them."  
  
Eames thinks about this. "What about the rules?"  
  
"You like rules." Arthur says, "I like things neat. The first rules were just...guidelines of the house. Don't smoke, clean up after yourself, things to keep everything neat. And then you liked them, so I gave you more."  
  
"So that's your thing. You want things to be neat."  
  
"I'm fine with sex being messy, but not the dynamics behind it." Arthur gets up out of the chair and surveys Eames work, hands tucked away. "I'm not all the complicated, really."  
  
"Fuck me, you aren't." Eames snorts, gets up and follows him, "Yeah, sure, you like things neat. I noticed that, your house is ridiculous, but that's fine. What about me, huh?"  
  
Arthur looks at him, tilts his head like he's thinking of a lot of words he isn't ever going to say, and he's been doing that more and more lately and Eames wants to rip into his skull and drag them out. "You belong wherever you want to belong."  
  
"I know that. I meant what about me. You like everything to be...clean, or whatever, but you let me in your house, right? And you didn't do that because I was all pristine and shit. I'm messed up-"  
  
"Eames." Arthur begins and Eames doesn't want pity or comfort here. He was messed up. It's just true.   
  
"I _was_ in any case, and you let me in. So you ruffled up your life on purpose. You gave me a room which is usually a wreck and you got me a dog, and dogs aren't the kind of animals you get when you want everything to stay the same way you put it. So, yeah, okay. Uncomplicated, you? Not really."  
  
Arthur thinks about that and Eames fusses over some little chopped up bit of something in the soil with his shoe.  
  
"I also like being needed." Arthur says, like it hurts him and Eames keeps prodding at the dirt. "I don't like leaving things unfinished, and I don't step away when someone needs me. You needed me."

 

####  [ Re: Rule Ten (Part 119) ](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3523242#cmt3523242)

on 2011-02-15 03:20 am (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

Eames turns, then and Arthur is entirely serious and refusing to look away and Eames couldn't really deny it. Though he didn't want to...he wasn't _needy_ , but...fuck, if Arthur liked being needed then Eames could do that.  
  
"Yeah." He agrees, clears his throat. "Guess I do."  
  
Arthur stares at him until Eames has to look away.  
  
"So," Arthur says. "Fairplay. What do _you_ want?"  
  
Eames begins chewing on his lip and shrugs. "I dunno, really. The orders, I guess."   
  
"Why do you like the orders?" Arthur moves closer. "I'm not saying that every single thing you like and enjoy needs to be because of some deep psychological need. Sometimes things are just...attractive for their own merits. But you like orders from me, specifically, correct?"  
  
Eames nods.  
  
"Why?" Arthur is right next to him and Eames looks at Arthur's hands.  
  
"I don't know. I just..."  
  
"You do know, though. You have that notebook on you at all times. It's been rubbed soft. You follow the rules even when you don't need to, and they aren't obvious ones either. Nothing to do with sex, or ownership, they're just...rules. So." Arthur taps the notepad, still in Eames pocket, just a light tap and Eames is reaching for it automatically, just to make sure it's there. "Why? Why do you follow them?"  
  
"They're...just... I like." Eames pulls out the notepad and flips it open. "You like things to be where you put them, yeah? I like having a place to be put." Eames shrugs. "And someone to put me there."  
  
Arthur breathes out one long, ridiculous exhale. "And what is like when you don't have a place to be?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"What is is like, for you, where you feel...adrift?" Arthur clarifies, "I don't try to, I try very hard to make you feel welcome, but there must be times when you've felt less then settled in. When you're...misplaced. What does that feel like?"  
  
"Horrid." Eames blurts and then stuffs his rules into his pocket. "I mean. it's fine. I guess. I'm used to it. But. Fuck this is ridiculous."  
  
"Tell me." Arthur asks and Eames wants to get away from the situation, it's too tight and too close and too much for the moment, but he's committed. Arthur wants to know, so Arthur gets to find out. Fair play and whatever.  
  
"It just sucks. Like. I go back to my mum's and I have a room there, but it's like...borrowed clothing, I guess. Or stuff that doesn't fit anymore. Old shoes. And it doesn't fit me and I don't fit there, but I have to stay there when I'd rather be here, except I _can't_ , because of the rules, except that's...it's better. Since it's a rule. And it's like you put me there, and even when it's...fucking impossible, its fine. So. Before that, before...you. I guess. It just."  
  
Arthur waits, patient as ever and Eames isn't good with words. He's not good in his head, he's not good outloud, he's just _not good_ with them. "Makes you feel like nothing. Like you have to pack everything all inside you head because there's no where out there you can go. Or whatever. I guess. It's...you know what I mean."  
  
Arthur nods.  
  
"What...what's it like. For you. I guess."  
  
"Sceneing is how I unwind." Arthur says.  
  
"Oh, so there _is_ an off switch." Eames laugh and Arthur have smiles at him, but it falls away and he turns starts going back towards the garage.   
  
"It...forces me to stop thinking about whatever I was thinking about-work, usually-and about another person. And I can just let everything narrow down to that moment, with that person, think only about to control the situation, how to give them what they need, how to make everything turn out right. And when it's over it's like I cleared my brain out, and then I can do something different." Arthur grabs the fencing and chicken wire and hands it to Eames.   
  
"So if you don't, what happens?" Eames juggles the fencing materials and Arthur leads them out again.  
  
"I get...too packed in. It's...cluttered, and I can't clear it out. Nothing is where it should be." Arthur looks at the vegetable plot. "And then it just gets worse. Claustrophobic and I can't focus on anything. I just keep...thinking the same things over and over and it's..." Arthur's jaw clicks shuts and works, slowly.  
  
Eames drops the supplies. "You're...like that now. Aren't you?"

 

####  [ Re: Rule Ten (Part 120) ](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3524778#cmt3524778)

on 2011-02-15 03:32 am (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

MOAR TOMORROW  
  
"Yes." Arthur says, and for a moment Eames can nearly feel it, what it's like in there.  
  
"Can't you just. Pick someone up?"  
  
"I've tried. It didn't work." Arthur is staring only at the raised bed and Eames doesn't know what to do. "I couldn't focus."  
  
"Oh." Eames says, and he wants to help. And it's not like he wouldn't offer himself, except Arthur won't take it. And that can't...he needs to do something. "Is it..."  
  
"It's not your fault." Arthur says, quickly. "I just. It's not your fault. You're...distracting. To me."  
  
And Eames will spend later thinking about what that _means_ , but right now that's not. He's hurting Arthur.  
  
"I could go." Eames says. "I mean. If that would help. I could go. For awhile. Leave you alone. I'm around a lot. It's irritating-"  
  
"No, Eames." Arthur grips him by the shoulder. He pulls him in and even though Eames is filthy Arthur just hugs him. "Eames, no. You need a place to be, you _need_ that, and I need to...force a reboot, I guess."  
  
Eames doesn't hug back, not...he shouldn't, because he's... Arthur's all messed up because of Eames and that's... That's never what he wanted. That was never what was supposed to happen. Arthur was supposed to be above all this. Or, well, he should. He should be fine. Eames wants him to be fine. Happy.   
  
"So what? We don't...what?" Eames asks.  
  
"I think I need to go away for awhile. A month. Just...a vacation from work, and from here and not from you. Don't start thinking that, _please_ , but I can't..." Arthur steps back and rubs the bridge of his nose, pauses to the door. Stops. Comes back. "When you're here, I focus on you, because I want to, and because you need me, and because you're just...distracting, and if I could do anything about it."  
  
"You could." Eames says, because Arthur could. he really, really could, if he wanted.   
  
"No, Eames, I said-'  
  
"But you need this." Eames grabs hold of him. "Right? Clear out the pipes, and it isn't working because...what? I get in the way? So do it to me, and then you can-"  
  
"I can't. Eames. I just. I don't trust myself right now. I'm not balanced, and that's dangerous. I won't scene with you until you're ready-until we _both_ think you're ready-and I will _never_ do it when I'm not..." Arthur just peters out and it's like all the...Arthur...got kicked out of him for a moment, and he looks...lost? Or...haunted or something. Something like that. Terrible.   
  
"So you'll go?"  
  
"It's the only other option."  
  
"You don't need to kick me out. I'll just go." Eames says. "I'll....it'll be fine. You don't need to leave your own house."  
  
"And who will take care of your dog? She's not my dog. She's yours. You need to take care of her, but she lives here. So. Either I, a fully responsible human being who can take care of himself and go visit his mother for a bit because she has been bothering him to do so can go, or you can leave the place you fit into and stay places you hate while your dog, who won't understand why she is suddenly bereft, sits around and pines for you. Is that the better option?"  
  
It's not, and it's clear manipulation on Arthur's part, but...Eames doesn't want him to leave and he doesn't want to go either and his first solution-just take it out on Eames-is the best one so far, in his opinion, but Arthur isn't going to budge so, really, this whole thing is just _bollocks_ , but...fuck. Fuck.   
  
"So, what. You're just going to...fuck off. Then. For a bit."  
  
"It's the only thing I could come up with." Arthur says. "I don't want to make you feel like there isn't a place for you, and I can't...I need to clear everything up in my own head before I can go back to helping you when you need me. And I'm not leaving right this second. It'll be a week or two."  
  
"Yeah, but. I'm kicking you out of your damn house."  
  
"I'm _visiting my mother_ , it's not like I'm on the streets begging for bagels scraps." Arthur tries for the joke, but it dies before it hits air and they both know it.  
  
"Right." Eames says, turning to the fencing. "Fences. To keep the fucking deer out. I'll just, get on that."  
  
"Eames-"  
  
"Later. Had enough for now. Now it's times for fences."  
  
Arthur goes quiet and lets Eames remove himself and then goes back to his chair.

 

####  [ Re: Rule Ten (Part 121) ](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3540394#cmt3540394)

on 2011-02-16 08:43 pm (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

Two weeks later Arthur left.

\---

  
  
The first day Eames broke every single rule he could manage to break. Not, you know, because it was like _fuck you_ , Arthur, or whatever. Just...because it seemed the thing to do. The cat was away and all that. So he should play. He ate an entire gallon of cookie dough ice cream and then just left the container there, he drank beer, he smoked inside, he stayed over even though his mum was around, he just did whatever he felt like. Even though he didn't much feel like it at all, actually.  
  
His dog followed him around from room to room, needing to be hauled up the stairs, but otherwise on him like peanut butter, which made the whole thing feel slightly less dismal, but really. He couldn't just sit around and pine all the damn time. It was a month. Arthur would be gone for a _month_ , just a mere 30 days. He wasn't some tosser who could entertain himself for _thirty fucking days_.  
  
So, yeah, first day? Fucked around like he was being paid to. Then he cleaned up after himself and clipped a leash on his dog and just went for a walk, because he wasn't going to do what Arthur thought he was. He wasn't just going to sit around in his house like some dumb berk quietly wasting away needing help like a video game NPC. Arthur got a vacation to help clear his head. He needed it. And since he needed it that meant Eames had been fucking up. So he needed to fix that.  
  
He filled out job applications. He went to the park and ran them both until they were exhausted. Threw some stuff at ducks. Went back to Arthur's. Ate. Sketched. Played _Mario Kart_. And it felt like that, like...everything had just devolved into these short little clips. He did stuff. Stuff happened. What the fuck was he supposed to say about it? He wasn't pathetic he didn't...he did want to _be_ pathetic. He just didn't know what to do with himself. Like, he had a constant audience, someone to preform for, someone to react against, to, about, and now he was just. Here. Again. No one looking at him.  
  
His phone rang at some point on the fourth day of eating chips and playing video games, and generally failing at being anything like what he wanted to be. Hadn't gone to school, because _fuck it_ , and it wasn't about Arthur. He wasn't a needy little bitch who couldn't handle it when his friend left for a month. He was just. Adjusting. Relaxing. Taking his own vacation.  
  
"You are not allowed to ditch class on me." Ariadne said, because he could get out words, "I was going to ditch class _with_ you and then we were going to get ice cream, but we need to stand firm. Today she said an entire paragraph where there wasn't a single _actual_ word in there, and someone suggested I should draw buildings but not _buildings_." She finished in the art teacher's breathy, urgent voice.  
  
"What day is it?" He looks around, because when you stop going to school that days of the week stop mattering so much.  
  
"Thursday. You ditched Tuesday too, but I figured you were sick. Are you sick?"  
  
"Nah, just house sitting. Want to come over? He's got a flat screen and a BluRay player."  
  
"Is there really enough of a quality different between DVDs and BluRays to make a difference?"  
  
"On a screen this big there is."  
  
There was a pause. "Wait, is this... _him_ , him?"   
  
"Yeah. He's out of town for awhile. Letting me make sure his house doesn't pick up sticks and fuck off. Even left money for groceries or whatever. Fully stocked liquor cabinet, steaks in the garage freezer. Or we could go about town, if you think I'm going to murder you in my basement of disgruntled art student skulls."  
  
"I'm not an art student, I want to make buildings. Buildings are useful, art students are not. Artists, maybe. Depending. I haven't decided."   
  
"Harsh." Eames agrees. "You can meet my dog too."  
  
"Yeah, sure. What's the address?"  
  
He tells her and they hang up and then he realizes that he invited a friend over and that he doesn't really remember the last that happened.  
  
"Just so you know," He tells his dog, "I used to be amazing."  
  
She smiles at him like she believes him and that's good enough to be getting on with, really.

 

####  [ Re: Rule Ten (Part 122) ](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3541930#cmt3541930)

on 2011-02-16 10:02 pm (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

Around day 16 he was hanging our with Ariadne more than not. Which was important in it's own right, he guessed, but the important thing about that was that when he and her were hanging out-getting food, sketching, whatever. Showing him buildings. Talking. Going to a roller derby that one time, being around with her network of friends, just, whatever, he wasn't alone in Arthur;s house thinking about Arthur like a pounce, and he wasn't at home worrying they were going to move and he was going to have to struggle to be _not a pounce_ for basically ever.  
  
Right now? He was at some college party (and Eames was pretty sure Ariadne thought he was older than he was, or forgot, or whatever, because he was the only high school kid here and it all felt very 80's Teen movie to him) or, well, not party. It was called P House, for party, but it wasn't all beer pong and, like, fucking up against corners. Drinking, mostly, and a wall full of doodle-a-day calender posts, with a stick figure Captain Jack Sparrow teabagging a Halo Guy, but with an actual little tea bag tied between his stick figure legs, and a robot versus giant squid chess match, and just...random words put together with doodles. An entire wall just appeared with those, and yeah, weed, something, but mostly it was just a lot of people flopped over furniture being chill.  
  
Most people thought he went to the college, and Eames didn't dissuade them. It was...nice. Just...like, he didn't know anybody, and it wasn't like they _accepted him for who he was_ or whatever, he was just inside and so he belonged there. No expectations except he drop some bills into the booze fund now and again and once in awhile say something interesting enough to remind them that he was there and then he could just hang around with people. And he _liked_ it. He could just melt into the couch and soak up people's little..ticks, or whatever. Stuff that made them people. The way one girl held her drink, or the way one guy got up and stretched, the speech patterns of the person currently talking (about something he was too young for, Ana Morphs?) and how everyone in the room just sort of snapped to attention when someone brought up anything they had in common.  
  
"Having fun?" Ariadne plopped down next to him, half drunk and all snuggles and he didn't mind. Everyone was basically on top of each other-not enough chairs by half. "Someone brought macaroons in a bit ago, you should grab while the grabs good."  
  
"Nah, m'good here." Eames leans back into the couch. "Surrender this seat and it's gone forever."  
  
"You should have brought a flag." She puts her drink down near his and flops party on him, party on the girl next to him and she just adjusts so she can drink around Ariadne's legs. Like it doesn't even matter. "This reminds me. We need to do a cuddle party again soon. You ever been to one?"  
  
He clearly has not, because Ariadne keeps going, "It's where we just get a bunch of people together, and all these blankets and pillows and futons and couches and everything, and everyone just de-stresses for a bit. Everyone just comes in and lies down and you curl up with whoever and you don't worry about anything."  
  
"Really?"  
  
"Too much about college is being locked up in your dorm, and you talk to people over the Internet but you're not really _engaging_ with anyone. So we just started cuddle parties so you have to go somewhere and see people and just...chill out. Reboot.  
  
Eames thought about Arthur-couldn't not-and wondered if he just dragged Arthur down on a bed and kept him there, stopped him from going and doing work, if he would have eventually settled into the groove an calmed down, some. Or if that would have made it worse. Arthur probably went to college and didn't see anyone for months.  
  
"You want to come? Saturday evening."  
  
"I've got nothing going on."  
  
"I'll pick you up. Easier than the bus. Brings some pillows and blankets if you have some to spare. Not nice ones, obviously. Oh hey, Never Have I Ever." She got up and plopped into the circle, because Ariadne was the sort of person who jumped into things headfirst. Which was good. Eames probably needed someone who was all gung-ho, onwards! considering Arthur did cost-benefit analysis about fucking dental floss.

 

####  [ Re: Rule Ten (Part 123) ](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3545770#cmt3545770)

on 2011-02-17 01:06 am (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

I added a mod so there would be people in my Minecraft world because I thought my guy was going mad from the isolation, but all they do is silently stare at you as you walk by. #nothelping  
  
It was only 17 days until he got up in the middle of the night, his dog following on his heels as he went down the hallway. He rubbed his lips together thoughtfully, hand on the door.   
  
"Gimme fifteen minutes and I'll be back for you, okay?" He said, looking down at her and she smiled at him in complete ignorance, wagging her ail because he was talking. He smiled back and then leaned with his back against the door and slid down, until he was face to face with her. If he got his own place than he could take her with him if things with Arthur ever just...died. Like, if he got his head on straight and decided waiting for Eames-or, well, even if he was waiting (he had tried, he said. Gone out and tried to do...whatever...with someone else.)-if he got sick of Eames, which, fuck, who knows? Plenty of actual adults split up all the damn time. If...if he got a job and a place then she would have somewhere to be.  
  
Except he couldn't get anywhere with a yard on a minimum wage, probably.  
  
"I'd figure something out." He says and she just keeps smiling, because that's what she does when she sees Eames. She smiles and barks and no matter what is going on, she's happy to see him. Which is good. Brilliant, really, why people get dogs. Dogs are happy to see you, fuck all else you've done. "But we won't have to worry about that. It's all going to be fine."  
  
She flops down on his legs and he leans against the door.  
  
"You know what I want?" He asks, because it doesn't matter what he talks about, she's not going to understand him anyways. "I want, when...yeah. When, when I get Arthur and we figure all this shit out, I want there to still be rules. All the time rules, not for like...you know. Sex stuff. But things we have now. I want those to stay, which is dumb, I guess. Do you think it's dumb?"  
  
She did not think it was dumb and he buried his hand in her fur and she shoved her head closer.  
  
"And he goes and asks _why_ I fucking like rules, and how am I supposed to know? I just _do_. Not at school, because half the time they don't even care, but I like these ones. And in the future, where I can live here, and I don't have to leave you so often, and we're happy-and we'll be _fucking_ happy, you get me? You won't even recognize us. But then I want there to be more things. Not nit-picky, need permission to breathe shit. But, like... You can only sleep in my bed if you earn it. So it's special. That's weird, right? I mean, most couples just sleep together."  
  
He rests his head against the door. "I just kind of like how things are now. Not, now, now, but. Like. I don't want to take anything for granted, you know? I want to be able to kiss him whenever, but there should be some things that are rare. Valuable, I guess. Like. Sleeping together. And other stuff. I don't know what."  
  
She rolls over for belly scratches and from there it's just a few moments until she asleep and snoring into the carpet, and he gets up and slips inside Arthur's door.

 

####  [ Re: Rule Ten (Part 124) ](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3549354#cmt3549354)

on 2011-02-17 02:29 am (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

If I talk about Minecraft that means I'm not utilising the dreaded icon or words. So, really, you should like this rambling nonsense. #all lies  
  
If, _if_ Arthur were home, some day in the future when everything is good, Eames will do this too. He'll come in and Arthur will be awake, knowing Eames was going to do this. Waiting for him. And he'd say something like... like "Eames, is this something you need?"  
  
And Eames would say no, because he wouldn't _need_ to crawl in with Arthur that night, he would be fine, mostly, it would have just been awhile and he would miss falling asleep curled up with each other, miss waking up in the night with Arthur gripped up all around him like he needed to keep Eames safe from imaginary thieves. Dream thieves. But he could go back to his own bed if Arthur said no and be fine with it. Well, not _happy_ , but not going crazy or anything.   
  
And Arthur would look at him and then tell him to...to come closer Get on the end of the bed, kneel, and he'd use that voice. Not the low one, but like...he just sort of expects Eames to do what he says. Doesn't need to yell or demand to make himself heard. And Eames would go, wouldn't know what Arthur was think, would just know that there was a chance he could earn was he wanted, and that makes it delicious. Like Arthur isn't always just doing stuff for him. That they're trading off.  
  
And he'd tell Eames to unzip his pants and Eames isn't blushing now, he's sure of it, but his face feels a bit hot and the room is empty and the door is closed, but he isn't used to being like this, not all curled up in over himself, but sitting up, hand on the bedpost, like he's going to put a show.  
  
He's not even going to let himself think this is dumb, because he's jerking off. He can think whatever he wants when he's jerking off. You can be as dumb as you want.  
  
And Arthur would leans back into the pillows and tell Eames to have a wank. Not to get off until he said so, of course, but just give Arthur something to look at. And sometimes Arthur would have Eames kneel over him so Arthur could play with his cock, and Eames would have to hold his hands back and not come and not touch and _fuck_ , he's going to be terrible at that. He's going to _suck_ at stamina, and what will Arthur do then?  
  
Questions to file away for another day. But in the future, when everything is good, Eames will be amazing at this. He'll be able to sit up and know how to drag it out, and Arthur will drizzle lube into his hand so it's nice and slick and easy, and Arthur will have this...smooth, easy commentary like...like _Fuck your fist like you mean it, Eames_ or something. Something amazing and Eames will do it.  
  
Right now he's got spit, and he's liked his hand sopping, but it's not as good. Just good enough to get the job done and he can't roll his hips into it, just moves his hand, squeezes down because Arthur would want him to do it hard, right? Up until he had him take his hand off and maybe just barely touch it. Yeah, Arthur would be a fucking prick tease (he was now, wasn't he?) and Eames would just grip onto the bedpost and do as he was told.  
  
He can't come on Arthur's covers. He can't, and he _needs_ to, it's all boiling up inside him, tense and coiled and one more pump and he'll just go, but he _can't_ , so he puts his hands flat on the bed and it _hurts_ to let it die down again, but he just stays there, breathing through it.  
  
He can't come on Arthur's sheets, the entire side of the bed Arthur sleeps on smells like him, and Eames lies down on top of it a moment, cock dragging against the blanket and he wants to thrust, wants to shove his dick against the fabric until it smells like Arthur and sex and laundry detergent, but he doesn't.  
  
He rolls off to the other side quickly, might need the smell later and pulls himself up. In the future, he'll have come when Arthur told him, he'll have waited and waited until it drove him out of his skull and Arthur would, eventually, tell him it was okay, to let go and he would. He'd get it on the ceiling, he'd go off so hard.

 

####  [ Re: Rule Ten (Part 125) ](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3551658#cmt3551658)

on 2011-02-17 02:49 am (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

I'm not ever going to be able to use this icon for anything else, am I? MOAR TOMORROW  
  
Arthur would pull him down on the covers and maybe-not because _Eames_ wanted it like this, but just because Arthur was the sort-he'd kiss him and say he was good. Or something. Just.  
  
Now Eames was blushing and he felt dumb, but sat on the end of the bed, because in the future, he and Arthur could do whatever they wanted to each other, they could _wreck_ each other, and it would be fine. And Arthur could say whatever he wanted to Eames. He could call him a greedy slag, if he wanted, could call Eames his good boy, bad boy, what the fuck ever, because as long as Arthur called him something he wouldn't in public, that was something that belonged to Eames.   
  
He took off his t-shirt, because his dick was heavy and aching and he needed to come into something. He wrapped the worn cotton around and fucked into it, the slide of cloth not quite what he needed, but it was warm and clean, so fucked into the cotton. He didn't want to get up and he didn't want to leave the perfect mental image he had going, and he wasn't going to jizz all over Arthur's bed.   
  
Did Arthur jerk off thinking about the future too? Yeah, bet he curled up and waited until Eames was asleep, or was out, and he jerked off an curled up and guilty. Not that he should be guilty, but...but fuck, if he did it and he didn't want to, but he just couldn't stop himself and-  
  
Eames lost his breath, punched it right out of himself and felt the shirt get warm and wet under his hand, dropped it to the floor when he was done, feel fucked out and tired. The best part would be earning it. When he got to go under the covers and they'd wake up and Arthur would fuck him awake, because Eames would be there, warm and waiting and willing-fuck, always willing. _Always_ willing, Arthur would just...go for it, and Eames would wake up right off knowing everything was good, in the world.  
  
It's incredibly stupid and pathetic, but that doesn't mean he doesn't know down to his _bones_ that if he could just wake up every day and know that Arthur wanted to keep him, that Arthur liked having him around, then fuck everything else. And that way he'd be able to give something back, right? Not that he'd be paying in trade, or anything, but just. It would be better, if he could see Arthur getting something out of it.  
  
He got up and went the door, taking the t-shirt along, and slid out. The second he opened the door his dog perked awake and rolled onto her feet, sniffing around to make sure he hadn't been replaced by a jizz-covered robot. Which wouldn't be the worst kind of robot ever. Maybe in the future when everything was happy they'd have hover cars and robots.  
  
He was dumb as fuck after coming, he really was.  
  
She follows him back to his room and he ditches the shirt into the laundry bag and his bed, and climbing in after him. He laughs when she shoves him over tot he wall an flops heavy and furry on his leg and stomach. She's a bed hog, and he likes that, because that's all he _needs_ right now, really.

 

####  [ Re: Rule Ten (Part 126) ](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3563178#cmt3563178)

on 2011-02-18 12:43 am (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

“How was the airport?” Mom asks as she served him another twice-baked potato and he dug into it without comment. Mom served you food instead of asking if anything was wrong. When anyone was in a mood she’d bake them a pie and then force them to eat it while talking about whatever it was that bothered them. If it weren’t for Dad’s heavy insistence that they all be active sorts of people you’d have had to roll him down the street by 20. “Was the security line long?”  
  
“No. I got through security in under twenty minutes.”  
  
“I remember when you could get through in under five,” Dad grumbles, “Now you can’t go anywhere without some man cupping your junk and feeling around for bombs.”   
  
“It’s not like they want to be down there either.” Mom dismisses, “The flight was okay?”  
  
Arthur just slips through the conversation, doesn’t even track what’s happening, because it’s not interesting enough to grab his attention. He’s been having this exact same conversation—or thereabouts—for decades, now. Maybe he should have gone hang-gliding, or something else full of adrenaline and focus, because as is, this isn’t going to help him at all. This is too familiar. But that was the idea, right? Fall into his old habits; dose himself with nostalgia until he’s reset from the last save point.  
  
“You’re tired.” Mom asserts eventually, and he nods, because otherwise it’s sitting around the living room and catching up for the next four hours, and you can’t do a plane ride and that on the same day. He goes to his room. He unpacks. He straightens up and then stares around his room.  
  
“Am I over it yet?” He asks his bookshelf. He immediately wonders if Eames has read any Brian Jacques and that’s answer enough right there. He sighs and pulls _Redwall_ free and sits on his bed to read, since he won’t actually manage to sleep without feeling like he’s accomplished something. Maybe he’ll just read every single book he owns until his brain is too full to process anything but stories about mice and men.  
  
That’s what people do on vacations, right? Catch up on their reading? He doesn’t remember the last time he had a vacation that didn’t involve being packed into the mini van—no air conditioning, of course—and driving to Colorado non-stop (dad didn’t believe in hotels, so they took shifts, once Arthur was old enough) and those were basically just like being at home except with thinner air and a more scenic outlook from the window. And Jack breaking one bone for every vacation like _clockwork_ and Andrew being chased by ever bee in the state like he assassinated their Queen and this was the feature length film about their revenge plot.  
  
Some people are made for free time. Arthur is not one of them. The house needs repair, surely. He could get a lot done in a month. The house was built in the 70’s and Arthur doesn’t think there’s much of it that’s changed except by necessity. He’ll just. Fix. Everything.   
  
He should call Eames. To make sure he’s okay. Not that Arthur thinks Eames can’t handle himself, just…he’d been shifting between sullen and overly-affectionate for the last two weeks, and every time Arthur tried to talk about it, Eames either shut down, or did a hell of an acting job pretending nothing was wrong. Arthur called earlier to say he’d gotten in safe, and Eames had been curt to the point of rudeness, and Arthur had just…let it go. Later Eames would be doing the cheerful bit again and Arthur didn’t know which he would prefer. The sulking, at least, was honest.   
  
That was the problem with being in love with a teenager, though, wasn’t it? They were still _teenagers_. Eames, for all his strengths and virtues, was still seventeen and thus deserved to have his moods and sulks, because you just needed to get through all the stupid so you could be a functional adult. Arthur wouldn’t demand otherwise, because the stupid, stupid truth was that he was in love with Eames. No big proclamation needed, just a bedrock truth that he’d found, digging his way to the center of his mental Earth.   
  
And Arthur isn’t just investing now so he can grab Eames when he become that man he could potentially be. He’s putting his money in now for the man as is, waiting only for Eames to see he has options before letting himself _have_.

 

####  [ Re: Rule Ten (Part 127) ](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3564970#cmt3564970)

on 2011-02-18 01:27 am (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

I swear at least 25% of my building metaphors are there because this in _Inception_ , not because I’m playing Minecraft like it’s my job.   
  
And the way things are now, Arthur is entirely willing to let himself believe Eames, should Eames ever say something similar in return. And he will, of course he will, he’s Eames first…intense relationship, no doubt. He realizes that five years from now Eames will be in love with someone else, and maybe they’ll meet up for drinks and Eames will say something like “It was love, with you, I mean. It was, but it was… It was too tall to stand, you know? Built it too high and too quick and it fell.” And Arthur will accept that too, or maybe Eames won’t talk to him at all, afterwards.  
  
But before that, before _any_ of that fallout, Arthur is going to let himself believe Eames, because Eames will believe himself, and no one needs to know any better. He’s not even sad about it, really, because it’s just one of those things you have to accept. Eames is going to grow up. That’s the end goal, here. To help Eames grow up as functionally and Arthur can manage to help with, and when Eames wants to trek out into the world, help him with that, and when Eames falls in love with someone else, help with that, and when Eames is on his own two feet and doesn’t need Arthur, help with that as well.   
  
And he’s not worried about it, because Arthur doesn’t make a habit about worrying over inevitability.

\---

  
  
By day six it becomes apparent he’s just not going to get off for the rest of the month, for one because he lost the knack for getting himself off no matter what kind of noises were going on around him, and everything about his room is Wrong. His bed is uncomfortable; the room is too small—as he wanted the room downstairs instead of the biggest room (which Jack and Andrew shared) or the nursery, which Harry got stuck with as the youngest. And the room downstairs was smaller than his walk-in closet back home, and he had to hang his pants up in the closet next to the basement stairs.   
  
The furnace makes weird growling noises all night, and the pipes bang, and if either of his parents shift the bed creaks _right_ above his head. Hell with getting off, he’s not going to be able to _sleep_. But he can’t go to Jack’s because Arthur’s niece went from a baby to an _unholy blight from God_ somewhere in the last few years and from the desperate looks on Jack and Amanda’s faces, Arthur would end up babysitting _forever_. Though maybe that would be distracting enough. It doesn’t look like either of her parents have the capacity for upper level thinking anymore.   
  
And this is going from 100 to zero in the space of a day. He’s not perfect; he never pretended he was, if a man couldn’t jump Eames and…just…fucking…grab into him and go until you both lost your ability to do anything else, then you had to be getting off with embarrassing regularity.   
  
Before Eames he would go maybe once every two days—less, if he was busy, not at all if he was in his Zone— but ever since Eames took it into his head to be…as distracting as possible (kneeling suspiciously often, asking for a cuddle every time there was anything on TV they wanted to watch and then basically trying to get into Arthur’s lap, drinking soda out of glass bottles and then _fellating_ the damn thing) he’d spiked to, on occasion, four times in one day. Which was just _inefficient_ and overall complete unsatisfactory, because when he came out of the shower, or his room, Eames would _still_ be there, and he would still being giving that bottle untold amounts of pleasure. Absently. Of course.  
  
And Before Eames he didn’t really think about anything when he was getting off. He just lay in his bed, or leaned against the wall of the shower, or hunched over the toilet, or sitting up in his computer chair, or _wherever_ and let off steam not thinking about anything. Sex was sexy. Masturbating was just something you _did_. It was like food, if there was someone else it was a _meal_ , you put effort and effect into the food. If you were eating by yourself, than noodles with butter was a perfectly acceptable meal for _five days running_.

 

####  [Re: Rule Ten (Part 128)](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3566762#cmt3566762)

on 2011-02-18 03:05 am (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

This would have been up sooner if my computer wasn’t ALL LAG, ONLY EVER LAG, today. MOAR TOMORROW.  
  
After Eames—not directly after, of course, there was a good space in there where everything was status quo, save for the kid who kept coming over to play on his GameCube and not know who N*Sync was because in 2000 he was struggling to color _inside the lines_. But after that muggy period of unnoticed change, he first, _first_ started thinking of someone very much _like_ Eames, not— of course— _actually_ him, because that wouldn’t have been appropriate, but someone a bit younger than Arthur usually picked up, and someone British, and someone rough along every edge, and someone who looked at Arthur like they needed him and they didn’t know how to stop.  
  
And it wasn’t like he fantasized on purpose; he didn’t need to be told that his fantasy life was depressing lacking, especially considering his sexual preferences, but just snatches of thoughts would drift in as he had a hand on the wall of the shower, water streaming down his back, dripping from his hair and would go into his eyes if he opened them, comfortable in his routine, when just this glimmer of an _idea_ would pop up, shaking wobbling through his head and lodging in, unable to be budged. Ideas that were like an _infection_ seeping in and taking up space. Of the Not-Eames panting into the door frame as Arthur held him there, and instead of trying to get away, he’d grip onto the chin-up bar that was not Eames’ chin up bar and Arthur would fuck him against the door, until not-Eames arms were shaking, and his legs were wrapped tight around Arthur’s waist and Arthur could bite him however much he wanted, leave the indents of his teeth all along not-Eames chest until they crumpled to the ground and Arthur could look down and press his thumb into the bruises and Not-Eames would love it. Not the pain, but the ability to endure.  
  
And somewhere, _somewhere_ Not-Eames turned more and more into Actual-Eames and Arthur couldn’t stop it, because he wasn’t doing it on purpose. He didn’t have any tried-and-true scenarios because he didn’t fantasize while jerking off, so Eames just moved in. And Arthur didn’t do anything about it, because he couldn’t let Eames know, so he just…let it be. He wasn’t going to do anything. He hadn’t ever thought of doing anything about it. Even in his head it was always conditional and speculative. Not “when I do this, Eames will do that” but always, always “if I were to, than Eames might…”  
  
And by now? He can’t even slip a hand in his boxer to adjust himself before the idea of reaching down and cupping Eames soft, over sensitive dick and holding him all night, just _because_ , and he didn’t even know where that came from, except then he’d be wondering if Eames could stop himself from getting hard, and then wondering how many times he could make Eames come before he just _couldn’t_ get hard again. How long would it take? The first one would be easy, and he’d be a bit embarrassed about it, but jutting his chin out, daring Arthur to say anything, and Arthur would be able to kiss him until he got hard again.  
  
How many times would it take? Two? Three? When would Eames just go entirely loose and lazy with it? Arthur would make each one count, too, until Eames was all heavy lidded and warm and exhausted and then Arthur could just reach down and Eames would make some sort of noise, right in the back of his throat and Arthur would get to shush him and Eames would reach for Arthur’s other hand, hold them over their heads, and just let Arthur do what he wanted.  
  
And then he’d be hard, of course, but _completely incapable_ of doing anything about it, because he’d look around and see all the reminders of himself at seventeen and he just… so he’d just…grab onto his book and wait for his dick to calm down, and it felt like all of his outtake valves had been blocked off. He was trying _not_ to think about Eames, but apparently that train had already left the station, and run him over just to rub it in.   
  
Eames was probably jerking off in every room of the house, just to make a point.

 

####  [ Re: Rule Ten (Part 129) ](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3575466#cmt3575466)

on 2011-02-19 03:50 am (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

Only the one tonight. More Later.  
  
Eames missed Arthur's feet most, right now.   
  
He had decided on day 18 that he was a teenager, and thus he was well within his rights to moon like a lovesick himself up until someone might see him, and then he had to grow a pair. However, since he was alone-Sammy didn't count (so named because when Ariadne had seen her, she'd introduced herself, and when Sammy hadn't been shy, she dug his hands in and went "Whose a Sammy-whammy-bammy-mammy?" until Eames' dog nearly pissed herself with excitement.)- he could stare at greyed out screen of yet another lost game and pine all the fuck he wanted.  
  
Earlier he'd decided he missed the way Arthur would talk to himself quietly when he got into the flow of his work, and the way he made all these neat little piles and everything moved from one pile to another like birds all flying off at once-no outside reason for it, they just did it. Before that he'd missed the way Arthur would get on the phone with someone he didn't like, all chill and curtness, dominating the conversation until he clicked the phone down, but if he talked to Eames, he'd be all warmth and affection. Or something like that.  
  
And before that he missed Arthur's cooking, because he'd been halfway to dying and resentful of frozen pizza, because he could be having any number of wonderful things, and instead he gets frozen pizza, which is bullshit. He never wants to see another frozen pizza again.  
  
But right now he misses Arthur's feet. He doesn't know or care why he likes them so much, and it's not like he fantasizes about them, you know, _doing_ anything, like..whatever was on the Internet about feet, he just. Liked them. Liked the rest of Arthur, yes, of course, but it was like. He had this huge bank full of...whatever...and then he had these checking accounts for all these little bits of Arthur that no one else in the world was going to notice, because you only notice that shit when you're paying really fucking close attention.   
  
No one else was going to notice that the strength of Arthur's coffee was dependent entirely on the weather.   
  
No one else was going to try and track the migratory patterns of Arthur's paperwork.  
  
Anyone else who cared to would have probably already been fucking him, and then they wouldn't _have_ to. They would have to grab in these little...bits and pieces, because they could just dive right on in and so they wouldn't notice the details. They wouldn't know what it meant when Arthur hooked his thumbnail between his teeth when reading-only ever when reading-and they'd never figure out how Arthur's feet flexed and shifted and twisted together when he was bored but not allowed to do anything about it, and they just... but _Eames_ knew that.  
  
So Arthur's feet were like...all that. What it felt like to know that even when Arthur decided Eames needed to piss off (for his own good, probably. He'd take a gap year, and come back, and Arthur would be in love with someone _appropriate_ and Eames never gets farther than that, in his head, because he _can't_ ) Eames would still be the only one to have all the bits and pieces figured out. And Eames is just going to go the rest of his life knowing all this useless trivia, and maybe he'll write a book. "1001 Facts That No One Else Knows About You." And he'll get a bunch of cats and a bad hairpiece.   
  
Right now he missed Arthur's feet, because Arthur's feet belonged to him. He didn't care about anyone else's feet, had never seen a foot in his life and gone "fuck yeah", but with Arthur's, it's just...something.  
  
"You don't have to worry about this." Eames says to Sammy. "You just get to be fluffy and everyone will love you. Wish I could turn into a dog. Not all the time, but just... flop down and...God this is dumb. Fuck." He restarts from his last save point, but it's not long before he's dead again and he just can't bother with it anymore, and he can't even be embarrassed by how much he's sucking at _mashing fucking buttons_ for-  
  
What _is_ embarrassing is how quickly he grabs his phone when it goes off on Arthur's ring tone.

 

####  [ Re: Rule Ten (Part 130) ](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3581866#cmt3581866)

on 2011-02-20 02:41 am (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

For the interested: [Male Submission Art](http://malesubmissionart.com/), there is a lot of penis and pretty (NSFW), and a lot of thinky thoughts about gender and submission and BDSM in general.  
  
Eames rolls up and changes the TV to some sitcom and then hits on the stereo loudly and switches on talk radio, and then moves into the bathroom, where the clamor is still very clearly audible, but muffled until it could, possibly be construed as something else. By this time the cell has rung out and he dials back.  
  
"Oh hey, sorry." Eames says, leaning against the sink. "What's up."   
  
Arthur pauses, clearly hearing the noise and trying to figure out what it means. "Are you...out?"  
  
"Ariadne's friends throw parties all the damn them and she invites me." He isn't lying, exactly. And even if he is, he just...it's not for the thing. he's not lying because he wants Arthur to think he's...ready, or whatever. He just. Arthur worries about him, right? That's why he got all fucked up in the head, because he busy worrying about Eames, and he shouldn't have to. Eames just. He doesn't want Arthur to think he's sitting around pining for him, or doing irresponsible shit for attention, or...whatever. "They're mostly just a lot of sitting around, watching movies, drinking, knitting. A lot of drunk knitting, actually."  
  
Arthur laughs. "I don't want to bother you if you're having fun."  
  
"No, hey, it's cool. I can have fun in the bathroom with you and then go back out as they mock me Foot Cathedral Man." That is, honestly, what they started calling Arthur. Eames didn't think it was catchy enough to keep on, but then someone had started writing a drunken song on their ukelele and here Eames was, immortalized in song for his love story with a man with "Feet like churches/When he's Around Eames' heart lurches/Like the butler from the Addam's Family/I wish Eames would draw a foot church just for me."  
  
"What?"   
  
"It's a long story. How are you doing?"  
  
"Fine." Arthur says and there's a beat where Eames is staring at the bathtub and Arthur isn't saying anything, and Eames doesn't know what that means. Is he surprised Eames is out? Or, what? Unhappy?   
  
"Keeping busy?" Eames tries, because he can't really picture Arthur just...lying in a hammock somewhere, drinking lemonade and not doing anything.  
  
"I tore out all the tiles in the downstairs bathroom, because they were 70's green, and I couldn't shower in that." Arthur says, and Eames laughs, because, well, yeah. Yeah, that's Arthur. And Eames wants him back here, not off somewhere picking out tiles and still being worried about Eames.  
  
Eames needs to figure out how to take care of Arthur. "Maybe you should make a project for yourself. I mean. Not the bathroom, but, like. Helping people, right? I mean, you parents don't really need a new bathroom, so you'll just do that and whatever, but do something that someone really needs you to do it, and then it'll be like scening, right? You can make things neater and have someone need you without all that, right?"  
  
Arthur is quiet, but it's a thoughtful quiet and Eames sits on the edge of the bathtub.  
  
"You have a point." Arthur says, when he's considered it and Eames smiles to himself, because home repair isn't engaging enough. Arthur needs to tackle something huge and challenging. Like. Skip the training and jump right into the boss fight. "So, you're...fine. Eating, and everything, right?"  
  
"Oh, yeah. And Sammy's doing good. I named my dog Sammy, she likes it. Responds to it. But then she basically responds to anything I say, so. Whatever."  
  
"Oh. We can go get tags made when I come back." Arthur says and Eames doesn't like this. Doesn't like the phone and the distance and just...everything. This isn't how they talk in real life. In real life they'll just be around each other, doing their own, separate activities and then one of them will say something and then they'll talk about that, before going quiet again. They don't sit down and have Talks (except when they do, but those are always About Something.), and this just feels...like, Eames will call when he needs something, and Arthur will call to tell him something, but they don't do _this_.  
  
Arthur clears his throat. "Talk to you later?"

 

####  [ Re: Rule Ten (Part 131) ](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3582890#cmt3582890)

on 2011-02-20 02:55 am (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

I should start a new thread.  
  
"Yeah. Sure." Eames wishes he hadn't done this, because then Arthur might stay on the phone longer, but Arthur needs to get his own shit together, and he can't do that if Eames is leeching from him all the time. Arthur is a person who needs downtime, and Eames forgot that because his downtime _was_ Arthur. He just never thought it'd be less relaxing for him. Of course it was, though. "Have a good night."  
  
  
"You too." But neither of them hang up, then, and Eames thinks Arthur is going to, and maybe Arthur thinks Eames is going to, and then just...neither of them do. Which is high school and ridiculous and dumb and he's not going to do the whole "you hang up, no you hang up, no you." shit.  
  
"How are you?" Arthur asks again and there's a different edge to it, this time, and Eames slips down into the bathtub and hunches down in there, because he doesn't know what Arthur _wants_ from him, or, what Arthur needs him to say so Arthur can just...do his thing.   
  
  
"I broke all the rules." Eames says, and he doesn't plan on it, but it just comes out, and it's not till he says it that he feels something very near guilt about it. Not proper guilt, not like he did when he shoplifted an eraser for the first time, because it had been bright and colorful and _new_ , because then he'd had to chuck the thing down a storm drain because he couldn't stop feeling _bad_ about it, even if it had just been some cheap piece of shit. No, this was more... he didn't know. It was just different. Not an achy-twisty guilt, but like...good. Guilt. If there was such a thing.   
  
  
"All of them. Systematically," He keeps going. "I slept here when my mum was home, I smoked inside, I came home drunk and just slept in all day, I went out to a party and got bloody smashed, and just stayed there instead of coming back here, I made a complete mess of everything and didn't pick up at all, haven't done a bit of homework, ignored my sodding bedtime, and I would have broke Rule Eight if I could have thought of way, but you weren't here, so it didn't matter anyways. I drank your beer and I-" He shuts up and looks down between his knees at the porcelain.  
  
"You what, Eames?' Arthur asked.   
  
Eames squeezes his eyes, because he needs to shut up, he needs to _shut up_ , this isn't helping, he isn't helping, he was trying to help, but he's stupid and selfish and he _doesn't want_ Arthur to be able to scene with anyone else. Eames can't think about anyone else, sure, he's sucked dick, but it's always been Arthur's in his head, and he won't say that outloud because it's _stupid_ , but it's the best way he can think to put it.   
  
"Rule Ten." Arthur says. "How did you break that one?"  
  
Eames grits his teeth."Can't really break that one, either, can I? If I need something, You'll give it to me, but I have to ask for it first, right? And if I don't ask you won't give it to me."  
  
"Oh, but you can." Arthur says. "You can break that one very easily, Eames, and it's the worse one to break by far."  
  
"Really? Would have thought that would be cleaning up after myself." Eames rubs his face.   
  
"If you need something from me, and don't _let_ me give it to you." Arthur says. "That's how you break rule ten. If you need something from me and then proceed to not let me help you."  
  
"I'm not dependent." Eames mutters, but Arthur hears him.  
  
"No, you aren't. You can handle yourself. However, rule ten states that if you _need_ something that comes from _me_ , specifically, then I will give it to. It isn't about what you want from me, or the world, it isn't about what you need from other people, it's about what I, Arthur, can give to you, Eames, that either no one else is offering, or you are unwilling to accept from anyone other than myself. It is about what you, Eames, require for you physical, emotional and mental well-being, from me, Arthur."  
  
Eames is silent, because there's nothing to say and he fiddles with a hole in his trousers, because he doesn't even know why he said anything. he should have just hung up and gone to bed. Now Arthur has to take care of him again when he doesn't need it, he just wants it because he's greedy and he wants _everything_.

 

####  [ Re: Rule Ten (Part 132a) ](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3585962#cmt3585962)

on 2011-02-20 04:23 am (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

MOAR TOMORROW  
Arthur doesn't say anything either and Eames thinks one of them is just going to end the call out of exasperation, or that he should because otherwise he's dragging Arthur down again and _fuck_ he just wants to help but he can't figure out how.  
  
"Should I do a scene?" Eames asks, then, and he was pretty sure he hadn't even been thinking that previously. "Would that...help?"  
  
Clearly he caught Arthur wrong-footed.  
  
"You're seventeen. You could get into a respectable club at that age, and no, I don't want to know about your fake ID. Also it's... it's not like going out for a one night stand, which is dangerous enough in and of itself. You have to get to know a Top, talk with them, make sure you trust them, and it's...difficult to find people whose needs and wants mesh with what you need and want."  
  
"So, no. It wouldn't help." Eames says, and he isn't sure if he's relieved or disappointed.  
  
"When you're eighteen, I will take you to all the clubs and conventions and whatever all else you want, if you want. Until then I just have myself and resources that might help. Books and websites for one. People, for another."  
  
"You are dropping me off on any more of your friends without telling me." Eames says, because they agreed on that.  
  
"No. But I do think you and Maxwell should talk. His expirence is obviously going to be different than yours, but he can give you an idea."  
  
"I don't want to talk to Maxwell. I want to talk to you." Eames turns his head to bite his arm so he'll stop _blurting this shit out_.   
  
"And what do you want to talk to me about?"  
  
Eames bites down until he can't anymore and then pulls back, wiping the saliva off his arm. "That sort of stuff. When...that sort of stuff happens, then I want to talk about it with you. And yeah, sure, I understand it's...this big thing, and I don't really know how big of thing it is yet, and maybe later I can talk with some other people about it, but right now I don't. And don't say I can't just depend on you for this, because fuck loads of people explore sex and stuff together and don't have this whole _network_ of contacts to help them out. Right now I'm fine, and maybe later I won't be and we can deal with that then."  
  
"Then what do you need from me?" Arthur asks.  
  
"What I _need_ from you is to know what the fuck I can do to make you..." He gestures and then slumps down further into the tub, like he doesn't want anyone to see him. "I want to help you, for once. You want me to be an adult and shit, and fine, yeah, that's the goal, but this can't all be about what I need. You. You were having all this mental, headspace, scene, whatever stuff going on and you didn't even tell me until you decided to go away."  
  
"Eames-" Arthur starts, but Eames isn't going to stand for that, tonight, apparently. Apparently his mouth is just going to run the show tonight. Awesome.  
  
"No." Eames sits up, because he's right. Of course he's right. Arthur can't treat him like an equal at one turn and then like a fucking baby at the other, he's got to commit to one of them. And Eames wants it to be the one where they _get to fuck_. "You do all this shit for me, and you get what? The occasional vicarious thrill? No, I call bullshit. I get to make rules now too, and Rule one was if you capture it, you own it. And Rule two is if _you_ want _or_ need something from me you fucking _tell me_."

 

####  [ Re: Rule Ten (Part 132b) ](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3586218#cmt3586218)

on 2011-02-20 04:25 am (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

  
There will be a new thread tomorrow. Take note and act accordingly.  
Eames stands up, even though its stupid, because its not like Arthur can see him, but it feels better, to be standing.  
  
"Eames-"  
  
"Equals, right? I get to make rules too."  
  
Arthur is silent and Eames likes that better, because it means Arthur is actually thinking about it.   
  
"Rule One," Arthur says, "If you capture something, it is yours. Rule Two, if I need or want something from you, I have to tell you."  
  
Eames feels calmer, then, settled. Rules are important, to Arthur. He won't break them. Eames sinks back down, hunched over his knees. "Yeah."  
  
"Okay then." Arthur agrees and it's easier to breathe, then, and he'll think about this later, what this _means_ later, but right now, he has some leverage, and he's keeping it. "Eames. What I would like for you to do is for you to do is thank Ariadne for inviting you, see if you can make plans for the weekend, say goodbye to everyone, go home-whatever that means to you-do your homework, eat dinner, and go to bed. Then I would like for you to go to school for the rest of the week and for you to do your homework, and if you can make plans with Ariadne, I want you to go out and have fun and be _safe_."  
  
"That all you want?" Eames asks.  
  
Arthur exhales and Eames can almost hear his palm dragging down his face.  
  
"No." Arthur sighs. "That's nowhere near what I want from you. I the sheer amount of things I want to do to you..." He trails off and Eames would listen to him all night if he wanted to list them. he really would. "But I can wait for that. I will wait for that. What I need from you is for you to be safe. What I need is to know you're not going to fail out of school. That's all I need, right now, okay?"  
  
"But I want to help."  
  
"And right now you can help by acting like I'm around even when I'm not, and telling me if you need anything from me. I need to know you're okay, and since I'm not there to see for myself, I need your self-report. That is the best thing you can do for me."  
  
It doesn't feel like he's doing anything, it feels like something else Arthur is doing for him, but if Arthur just needs Eames to be out of the way, fine. Eames can do that. He will do that, because if he proves he can do this, then Arthur will trust him enough to ask for more, later.  
  
"Okay then. I'll do that." Eames says and Arthur thanks him and they actually mange to hang up this time.  
  
Eames turns off the noise, lets Sammy out from Arthur's study (which has the thickest walls, so the noise wouldn't bother her) and he doesn't actually know what his homework is, so he just picks her up and they go up to bed.

 

####  [ A Snippet From The Future Where Everything Is Happy (1) ](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3600810#cmt3600810)

on 2011-02-20 07:55 pm (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

I got tired of angst, so we're going to have a future snippet. The thing with future snippets is that, while they will be of the future where Eames/Arthur stopped being dumb, I still won't be writing sex (scenes, I will write.) and I will be shoving a lot of my thinky thoughts about BDSM in here, as this is sort of why this fic has been going so long anyways, because I have a Lot Of Thoughts.  
  
Also with scenes I'll probably end up showcasing things that are not your kink, and not really trying to make them so which is something I would try to do in the Main Fic (KINKEPTION) But there will also be love and cuddling and affection and boners, so, do whatever you need to, about that. LONGEST A/N FOR COMMENT FIC EVER.  
  
Eames loved Arthur, he really did, he didn't think he had to prove that anymore than he already had. Or, well, he didn't know _how_ to prove that anymore than he already had. However, Arthur was not an artistically minded person. It's not that he thought art was dumb, or didn't support Eames, he just honestly could not offer feedback for anything other than rendering. And even then he was mostly like "that table could be more table like."  
  
Ariadne was better, in that she drew as much as he did, but she was drawing for a _purpose_. She drew buildings and the buildings needed to look like buildings, and be things that could actually, really, exist in reality. So she knew all this shit about lines and depth of field and proportion, and since it was _her_ she also had stuff to say about emotive drawing and how things draw the eye and space and utility and all that, but once he got into paints and stuff she just sort of shrugged because it was out of her medium.  
  
So he wasn't sure how he felt about Lydia and Maxwell, but on the other hand, they let him paint on their walls and Lydia usually had something to say. They were even, on occasion, helpful. He also, guessed, it was kind of nice to have someone around who knew what Eames was getting at when he talked about limits and ideas and stuff, because Arthur was entirely willing to research anything he wanted to try with him, and talk about it, and eventually try it out once he was sure he could do it safely. Ariadne had had a boyfriend who liked being scratched until he bled, once, but that's as far as it went.  
  
"Have you ever been caged?" Eames asked, because that's how this worked. He came over, and picked out supplies and a bare patch of wall, somewhere, and made these little biomes of color. Right now he was working his way up the staircase while Lydia had taken one of their cheap fiberboard bookshelf apart and was writing her favorite quotes over the cheap fake-wood.  
  
"Yeah." Maxwell replied, half asleep on the couch. "We have a few cages around, or, well, I only fit in two cages, the biggest dog one, and the stand up 360 degree access one. And the other one is a cell, actually, so everyone can fit in that one." He doesn't ask why, because Eames only asks when he's been thinking about it.  
  
Thus far he and Arthur had done the pretend-to-be-a-dog thing oa few times, usually sort of off-the-cuff fun type stuff. Nothing planned, or serious, really, just playing around. Which Eames liked about it, it was fun. It made Arthur laugh. And Eames knew it was actually this big thing and he could get all this paraphernalia and toys and shit, but that was true about everything, and for the most part Eames had more fun when he and Arthur went to Home Depot, or somewhere, and walked around figuring secondary uses for everything.   
  
It was more fun, like that, the shopping on the Internet, or going to actual sex store. Like, you go into a sex shop and everyone knows what you're there for. You got to a home repair store, looking at wooden dowels to make into spreader bars, and you're just a couple of guys doing some DIY. It's like you're fooling everyone.  
  
"What was it like?" Eames asks, sweeping a streak of emerald through all his layers of cerulean and sapphire and cornflower. He also likes home Depot because the paint color names are ridiculous, and he collects the little bits of poster board and gives them to Lydia to peruse and write on her doorframes.   
  
"Depends on which time. And which cage."

 

####  [ Re: A Snippet From The Future Where Everything Is Happy (2) ](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3602858#cmt3602858)

on 2011-02-20 08:54 pm (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

"The dog one." Eames says, and he likes that he doesn't have to look up, like Arthur always expects of him. Arthur wants you to look at him when you're talking, and that's fine, really, except when it's stuff like this and Eames just wants to focus on whatever the fuck he's making here. "And just...a good time. I guess. Or an average time."  
  
He doesn't think Arthur would get him a cage, or, well, they'd _talked_ about sectioning off an area in the otherwise full-level basement for their own sort of playroom ("Nothing fancy, probably just an open space to play.") and maybe they could put the cage in there, if Eames still wanted it, but not now. He likes the thought of it, though, though, really he just likes it when Arthur puts him anywhere. And if it was a cage then Arthur would be able to leave him there longer without worrying.   
  
He would cuff Eames to something, like the bed, with the leather manacle, and since i was soft restraint, he'd usually feel okay to do some paperwork in bed and let Eames just lie there, but never for as long as Eames _wanted_.   
  
And he wouldn't let Eames sleep in restraints very often at all, even though it was, he admitted, safe. When Eames was like that _Arthur_ couldn't sleep, because he was still in hyper-vigilant Dom Mode. even though he knew it was low-risk. Arthur didn't do this shit in degrees, which Eames liked, for the most part. It just meant that if he wanted to sleep in restraints then it would have to be a nap in the daytime, so Arthur could keep an eye on him.  
  
A cage, though, would mean that Eames could be where Arthur put him all night. For hours, even, and he can't imagine a better way to sleep than that. Like, sleeping in Arthur's bed is the best way, because Arthur's there, and Arthur always wakes up before him and makes his grab the headboard and spread his legs while Arthur sucks him off, and then sending him to practice making pancakes, because Arthur is _devious_.  
  
"Well," Maxwell says after a moment, "I, personally, don't like it as much as straight up bondage, because I'm a rope slut, and I've never been in one for longer than a few hours."  
  
"It's powerful symbolically." Lydia adds. "When you're chained up you still have an illusion of movement. In a cage you can move your limbs as so much as the confines allow, but more aware of your confines."  
  
"Yeah," Maxwell agrees. "I mean, when you're in a cage, you _know_ you're in one. And from what I've heard, it can be relaxing, I know a guy who has his and when he's had an off day he'll just crawl in there. Like, it's this space where you can just sort of. Um."  
  
"Its a physical representation of a mental space." Lydia fills in.  
  
"Yeah. I mean, the whole Basement is like that for me, I guess, but if you're just in your house you need spaces you can step into and be whoever you need to be."  
  
Eames likes that. Right now it's generally accepted that Arthur's room is scene space, and while stuff might happen outside of there-because Eames wants to have sex on everything because _he can_ and Arthur is willing enough to provide, but if they're both going in, its to play. But he can't crawl into Arthur's room when he's feeling...whatever. Not "in the mood" but... when he just wants to...detox from life, or whatever.   
  
"Could you use a closet?' Lydia asks.  
  
"Nah. I mean, sure, maybe, if it's being confined you like. But can't see your top through the bars of a closet, and without that connection is feels like your being ignored, you know?"  
  
"Mmm, and tape on the floor wouldn't have the same psychological impact, I suppose." Lydia begins rifling through the books on the floor for a new quote. "Would you want one that could actually hold you, or is it just the illusion?"  
  
"I'd want one that would actually work." Eames says. "I mean. It's not the same, I guess, if it isn't real. Even if it should mean the same thing."  
  
"Well, a cage like that would mean Arthur wanted to keep you somewhere, but also that he didn't want anyone to steal you." Lydia points out, and that basically transforms the idle thought into a fully realized desire.

 

####  [ Re: A Snippet From The Future Where Everything Is Happy (3) ](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3604906#cmt3604906)

on 2011-02-20 10:00 pm (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

As a note this _is_ being posted instead of a normal BAM, as I am angsted out for the moment. Just so you know.  
  
Arthur considers the request, like he does anything else Eames brings up. It's one of his favorite things about Arthur, that he considers things and is willing to do the research behind them before turning anything down. Like, just to test it, Eames talked about maybe playing with some sharps-needles, mostly, instead of knives- and he _knows_ that Arthur wouldn't want to, would never think to do that on his own, but Arthur had sat him down as they read about it, and talked about it, and Eames hadn't even really wanted to, just wanted to know Arthur would, if he wanted.   
  
"What kind of cage?" Arthur puts his pen down and Eames sits across from him.   
  
  
"A dog cage, I guess. something I'd have to crawl to get into." Eames taps his fingers against the table. "Big enough for me, but not too much room. A cushion on the bottom, so I could..stay in there awhile."  
  
Arthur puts his hand in his hand and looks at him until Eames stops fidgeting and lifts his chin to stare back and then Arthur just leans forward and kisses him, until the nervous tension drains out of him and he wants to crawl into Arthur lap and distract Arthur from his work so completely that Arthur forgets what he was doing. It's good for him. Eames is just looking out for the guy.  
  
"We can look around and see what our options are, and if we get one and you don't like it, then it can just be Sammy's new thunderstorm cage."  
  
Sammy hated thunderstorms with a vicious, terrified passion, and only calmed down when they put her in her carrier. The only problem with that for the first fifteen minutes or so of being in there she would knock around and scratch at the padding and rub her face against the bars until it had started bleeding, one time, so Eames had wrapped each little square with padding. The carrier wasn't set up for that, and even though she always calmed down and was perfectly fine _after_ that, the first fifteen minutes didn't change.   
  
"It can be that anyways." Eames says, because he wouldn't mind sharing with Sammy. "And then we would have to worry about putting it anywhere, because we have Sammy and no one will ask any questions."  
  
"Mmm, practical." Arthur says, the way some people say "kinky" and he begins scratching Eames neck to his ear. "So you're interested in more puppy play from time to time I take it."  
  
"I makes you laugh." Eames defaults and presses his head against Arthur's fingers. "And Sammy is my dog. So you need your own dog."  
  
Arthur laughs then and goes right against and scratches him under the chin, and Eames smiles at him, because he likes when Arthur is feeling playful. He likes that they're in a place where Arthur will be playful with him, unashamedly. He's not second guessing himself or over-thinking, or anything, and Eames doesn't even feel stupid acting like a fucking dog, because it makes Arthur happy. Provided he doesn't have to dress up. He doesn't want to dress up in general, like, sure, Arthur can get him clothing and dress him in the morning if he wants. That's fine. But if Arthur wants him to wear tight leather shorts or whatever, it isn't happening. He likes it the way things are now, sort of casual and easy. Like, he can wear a hoodie and socks with holes in, and Arthur will still want to fuck him.  
  
"So it's entirely an altruistic move on your part?" Arthur clarifies and Eames slips out of his chair and presses his face to Arthur's thigh, because he can, and Arthur will let him, and like it. "Hey there."  
  
Eames smiles, self satisfied and pleased and Arthur digs his fingers into Eames hair and scrubs and Eames could laugh with it if he wanted to, instead he tries to climb up into Arthur's lap and Arthur makes a noise like Eames does when Sammy tries the same thing. "You are suffering false delusions of lapdog-dom." Arthur says and then clucks his tongue. "Who put you in clothing? Clothing is demeaning to dogs. Let's get you out of all that."

 

####  [ Re: A Snippet From The Future Where Everything Is Happy (4) ](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3606954#cmt3606954)

on 2011-02-20 11:03 pm (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

I find it hilarious that I'm listening to "The Dog Days Are Over" right now.  
  
Eames is trying really hard to not chuckle himself out of character and instead just licks Arthur's face, and Arthur tugs him shirt over his head. "Yes, yes, kisses for me."  
  
Eames licks at his chin, wet and sloppy and Arthur tugs him out of his trousers, pants and socks until Eames is naked and on his lap and Arthur's chin is shiny with spit.   
  
"That better?"  
  
Eames snuffles, because he can't quite make himself bark, yet, and Arthur does tend to try and push him, because this is just for relaxing, easy moments. It's for fun, and ends up in Eames curled up and laughing himself into a breathless mess as it does anything else, but once out of it, Arthur is usually up for a snog on the couch, usually slipping into some nice and easy frottage, and that's something he can always get behind.  
  
"I have to finish up here before we play, but if you sit quietly and wait for me, I'll give you a treat." Arthur promises and Eames shoves his head against Arthur's shoulder, so Arthur goes back to petting him. "You can be a good boy and wait, can't you? I know you can." He Smacks Eames just firmly enough for him to get the idea to get off and Eames slides down, but keeps his head on Arthur's knee, waiting for his turn.  
  
Arthur smiles down at him, and then picks up his pen to get back to work, but it's fine, because Arthur is still card his fingers through his hair and when he lies down, Arthur rubs a socked foot against his stomach and he doesn't know how he lived without this, honestly. Like, not even the sex and the playing and whatever. Just...with Arthur being this happy and easy and affectionate, and being able to say what he wants and for someone to fucking _listen_ to him and _do_ something about it.

\---

  
  
Two weeks later he comes home from work around 8pm, and he's tired and he never wants to see another dish in his life-except for how he's the best dishwasher they have, so he has a weird sense of pride about the whole thing-and Arthur looks up from making dinner and Eames plops into a chair and rests his head in his arms. "When can I get a job where I just play Solitaire all day and pretend I'm working?"  
  
Arthur puts a plate of stir fry in front of him and a fork in his hand. "You don't want that job. You want to be an artist living in a sunny, airy studio apartment who somehow doesn't have to scramble to get commissions out just to eat for the week."  
  
"I could become a criminal. I'd make a splendid criminal. You could come with. We could be thieves in love." Eames eats the plate and then the slice of cake Arthur cuts off from him, because Arthur knows Eames doesn't care if the flavors go together or not, he wants cake. "You'll tie me up on every continent in the world and we'll fuck to the views of major landmarks."  
  
Arthur kisses the back of his neck. "Or we could do a Grand Tour of Europe, but without the felony charges."  
  
"We'd never get caught. And we'd have this big secret gallery of all the best paintings and statues, and then you could tie me up in there and put me on a podium and say I was the best one, because you have no taste."  
  
"I'm pretty sure that means I have the _best_ taste." Arthur points out and makes Eames drink his milk, because Arthur is the kind of man who will wrestle you to the floor, lash you down, and then make you take it until you scream yourself hoarse, but who also makes sure you drink your milk and wash behind your ears.  
  
"I have a present for you." Arthur says, when Eames is done, and Eames perks up, because he likes presents. His last present was a new pair of shoes, and the one before that had been _Arkham Asylum_ and the one before that had been one of those really nice and expensive hairbrushes, with the tortoise shell back and the soft bristles, and Arthur kindly showing him how _very_ useful it could be. Eames presents in return were generally more along the lines of sex, which wasn't really a _gift_ so much as a mutually beneficial activity. He was also learning how to make pancakes.  
  
"Is it a pony?" Eames asks and Arthur just takes him by the hand down into the basement. "Is it a robot? Is it a pony robot?"

 

####  [Re: A Snippet From The Future Where Everything Is Happy (5)](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3610026#cmt3610026)

on 2011-02-21 12:15 am (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

This isn't a snippet anymore, is it?  
"I don't trust you with a car, anything that can shoot rockets is out of the question."  
  
"Driving is stupid." Eames grumbles, because it is and he shouldn't need to learn. It wasn't his fault that America was so bloody _giant_ and poorly organized. "Mal agrees with me. We're on strike."  
  
"I guess Dom and I are stuck being your chauffeurs." Arthur stops him at the bottom of the stairs and takes off his tie. "Woe."  
  
"Wait, is it the kind of gift that needs a blindfold?" Eames doesn't know what kind of gift that needs a blindfold is, but it's probably amazing. Arthur just wraps the thick silk around Eames head and ties it off, tight and effective. He then pulls Eames out of his fast-food smelling clothing and Eames holds on to Arthur, anticipation curling in his stomach as Arthur kisses below his ear.   
  
"Do you trust me?" Arthur asks, quiet and low and Eames does, of course he does, doesn't even need to think about it, and Arthur guides him down onto his knees, and Eames goes, orienting himself by Arthur's hands. There's a click and a slide of fabric and Eames feels the canvas and metal of his belt around his throat. He got one with holes all along the length, so Arthur could use it like this, if he wanted, and Arthur had provided even though he'd frowned at the belt for existing as an item of clothing. Arthur was touchy, like that.  
  
"Just follow at I go." Arthur says and when the loose end of the belt tugs Eames moves forward until he's against Arthur's legs. The carpet in the basement is a short, scratch fabric that he doesn't like under his knees, but Arthur like shim to kneel on just just that reason. Eames current plan is to rip it all up one weekend when Arthur is away. The proactive option is always the best one.  
  
He follows Arthur around, at one point feels the metal of the washing machine next to his shoulder, at another Arthur gets him up on the laundry folding table, and Eames wants to know what his present is. Is it an actual collar and lead? He could get behind that. Arthur would have to wrestle him out of the collar, because he's a punk teenager. Punk teenagers wore collars all the time. That would be his collar and he would keep it and no one could stop him.   
  
Slowly his hands come down on a squishy felt mat, and he wonders if Arthur got him a dog bed. He might have. Maybe they'll move it to the corner of Arthur's room and he and Sammy can share it and Eames will still wake up in Arthur's room.  
  
There's a squeak and a click and then the lead goes slack.  
  
"Take the blindfold off." Arthur says, very nearby, and Eames says crouched, but tugs the blindfold down. He's staring at Arthur through the bars of a cage, a real, honest-to-god cartoon-to-real-life cage. He takes a bar in his hand and shakes it, and it stays firm. He takes the blindfold off completely and Arthur takes it and wraps it around his neck. Eames tries each side, and all of them stay firm. There's an open padlock keeping the door closed, but there's also a simpler bar-lock for when the occupant doesn't have, say, thumbs.   
  
Eames shifts and runs his hands down the bars, and he can sit up. It isn't wide enough to stretch his arms out all the way except by putting them through the bars, but he can curl up comfortably, and stretch his leg out if he sits in one corner and sticks them out through the top.   
  
"Do you like it?" Arthur asks and Eames rubs his fingers along the shiny circumference of the metal. He can wrap his hands around and shake, and it hold firm. He has no idea where Arthur got this, it's not a run of the mill dog-cage. Maybe he made it. Who knew? But Eames already loved it. He looked at Arthur because he just. He didn't have any fucking _words_ , and his day had sucked, but now he was in here, and it was like the rest of the day couldn't get in.  
  
Arthur stares at him and he stroked through Eames' hair. "I didn't know if I would, but I like seeing you in there." He sit down and he can lean against the wall and stare at him. "I like seeing you outside, figure things out, interacting with people, getting a job, and doing your work and meeting up with friends. I like know you're outside with other people, happy with yourself. But I like you like this too."

 

####  [Re: A Snippet From The Future Where Everything Is Happy (6)](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3611306#cmt3611306)

on 2011-02-21 12:31 am (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

Back To Our Normal Programming Tomorrow. Same Bat-Time. Same Bat-Channel. (well, a different thread)  
  
Eames swallows. He doesn't really want to talk, right then. He often wants to talk, because otherwise Arthur gets stupid ideas in his head, and if you don't yell at him, suddenly he's doing shit "for your own good" and that never ends well. Right now, though, right now everything is good. Eames doesn't get to hear Arthur talk about what he likes _nearly_ often enough.   
  
It's Eames who comes up with all the scenarios, Eames who comes up new ideas. Arthur just figures out how to make them happen. And it's not like Arthur seems to hate anything they do, it's just...it's not all that often he says he likes anything besides his normal kiss-wrestle-tie-command-fuck-snuggle routine. And it isn't like Arthur doesn't _really like_ that routine, because he does. And it's not like he doesn't have fun with everything else. Except caning. Arthur had _hated_ caning and they'd stopped halfway through and they hadn't done it again. Spanking Arthur was fine with, scratching, biting, pinching, candle wax, hell, he had drawn blood once or twice, but the welts had apparently triggered some massive system error and Eames had kind of been getting into it, up until Arthur had looked like he thought he was some kind of monster.  
  
So they didn't do that again, and that was fine. And if he could find a way to get Arthur to treat him like he had afterwards, without all the terrible bits in front of it-the licking and slow, slow, slow careful fucking and basically acting like Eames was the only thing in the universe worth paying attention to-if he could have that again, freely, he would do anything he could think up.  
  
"When you're in there you can't get up to anything." Arthur says hands in his lap and his eyes are fierce and hot and they're going to scald him inside out, except Eames likes the heat. Needs it. "And no one can do anything to you, either. I can keep you in there for a few hours, and for a few hours you're going to be mine, aren't you?"  
  
Eames reaches for Arthur and Arthur takes his hand. "Now, either I can bring your homework down and you can work on it, and I'll work down here too, and I'll lock your cage or I'll go upstairs and leave it unlocked and you can nap, or read, or get yourself off."  
  
"Homework." Eames says, because he wants Arthur nearby, because then Arthur will look up from his work from time to time and see him and warm Eames from the inside out with a look and then the cage will be locked and he'll be exactly where Arthur put him.  
  
Arthur kisses his knuckles. "I'll be back. Are you warm enough?"  
  
"Yeah." Eames says, and he's a bit chilled, but that's part of the point. He likes that he's a bit uncomfortable, just as much as he likes that Arthur doesn't want him to be.  
  
He doesn't lock the cage and Eames could get out easily, if he wanted, but he just lies down and relaxes in the pillow. Arthur makes a few trips, first with Eames work, then his own, and then carefully leading Sammy down so she could sniff Eames and then flopped down next to the cage, like this was the best idea anyone had ever come up with, because now Eames couldn't go and wander off.  
  
"You don't need to pee or anything, do you?"  
  
Eames shakes his head and Arthur shows the key around his neck and then clicks the padlock closed. Eames breathes out in something like relief, and he tries the door and it won't open and he smiles at Arthur. Arthur smiles back and kisses his hand again and then goes to the laundry folding table, sits down and looks down at his work. Eames pets Sammy and then pulls out fucking _The Jungle_ and it's much easier to stomach, in here.  
  
And when he looks up Arthur is staring at him and he smiles to himself because he comes up with the best ideas ever.

 

####  [Rule Ten (Part 133)](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3621290#cmt3621290)

on 2011-02-22 03:41 am (UTC)

Posted by  [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

"Callie" is not my cousin. No sir. She's a fictional character who certainly has never made my life hell for two weeks. Yup.  
  
When he asked his brother if he wanted Arthur to watch Callie for the day, his brother basically did something like "Areyousure? Wellifyouinsistokay." and then he and his wife had been gone before Arthur had even gotten all the way inside. Well, okay, he'd gotten a lot of instructions and what-to-dos and if-she-does-this and what-to-eat and what-not-to-eat and so on, but for the most part Arthur was left standing in the toy-strewn living room with his hands in his pockets as he watched a cloud of dust from where the car had been.  
  
Callie glared at him from her seat in her play castle and Arthur stared back. "We could do this face off-thing, or we could go to the zoo and see otters."  
  
"I'm going in my Princess Dress." She lifted her chin, all pudgy determination.  
  
"I don't care." Arthur said, because, hey, Princess Dress was clothing.  
  
"Deal." She sticks out her hand and he shakes it, and she has to put a bag together, and he doesn't bother getting snacks, because he's made his peace with overpriced, ridiculous zoo snacks, because she's going to demand them anyways, so might as well make it look like the plan, then like he's giving in. He's the uncle. He can afford to spoil her. He can also afford to let her cry her head off in the middle of the zoo. Whatever it comes down to.  
  
She comes out with her floral bag and giant sunglasses and he held the door open. And he figured it, Callie was a big, huge problem that, since she was a child, needed his constant attention. Especially if they were going to the zoo and there were hippos. Hippos were deadly. If nothing else she would wear him down to the point of her parents and then he wouldn't be able to think about _anything_.  
  
"Here's the deal." He says. "I will buy you as many snacks as you can eat up until you get sick, and then you throw up and we go home. I will buy you as many toys as you can carry, and since you're small, I suggest you pick carefully. I'm not hauling anything around for you. You drop it, and leave it, I some other kid gets it."  
  
She is staring at him from the backseat and he continues. "If you start getting cranky, we're going home, if you throw a tantrum I will wait until you're finished, and then we will go home, otherwise we can move about the zoo at your pace and in whatever direction you want. Deal?"  
  
"Dad tries to make deals with me."  
  
"Your Dad didn't have to haul Your Dad through the zoo every third weekend. Your Dad knows nothing. You do it my way you get overpriced and impossibly large lollipops. Do it your way and we spend all day in the car."  
  
She stares at him suspiciously. "I want to ride the rides."  
  
"Okay."   
  
"And feed and pet all the goats and pigs and chickens and stuff."  
  
"Sure."  
  
"And get my ears pierced."  
  
"Only if an emu is upset with you and does it by accident." Arthur is surprised he still remembers how to get to the zoo, seeing as he hasn't been for over a decade. But the signs are still there. She seems to be considering the deal and all its implications. Arthur knows that by laying down the law he's going to end up getting pushed on it, but that's nothing new. He just needs to react differently than normal.  
  
He realizes he's creating a tactical strike against a small child. He is comfortable with this. Sometimes he has to draft strategies to take Sammy on walks without her going on a pic Homeward Bound-Esque Quest For Eames. He's sure it's very epic and important in her head, but in reality it's just her wander on the sidewalk aimlessly for a while, then pick a direction and yanking Arthur's shoulder off, determined Eames is That Way.  
  
"Okay." She says finally, and then unpacks her bag and lays out all her coloring books, crayons, activity books, snacks, rocks and what looked to be a large ball of her own hair. He reached back the second she got paints out and put them in the glove box.   
  
"Hey!" She protested and he just looked at her from the rearview. "That's mine. That's stealing. I'll call the police."  
  
"I have seen kids and paint. I would like my deposit back on this car."  
  
"You're mean."  
  
"And taking you to the zoo." Arthur points out.  
  
She quiets.

 

####  [Re: Rule Ten (Part 134)](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3621546#cmt3621546)

on 2011-02-22 03:42 am (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

Moar Tomorrow Or Maybe Later Or Really, When I Get Words That Are Actually Words Back Again. Also DEAR LORD THANK YOU TO WHOEVER GOT ME A PAID ACCOUNT.  
  
"Thought so." He takes her CD and puts it in the player and she seems satisfied with this. Arthur can just focus on keep this kid entertained for one day. For one day he can focus on this, and that should be distracting enough, right? She might get eaten by lions, or run over by a crowd of school children. That should be stressful enough to clear his brain, right? Eames had a point, home repair, while physically taxing, was hardly mentally engaging. If he did that and took care of his niece, then by the end of his vacation he should be suitably run down enough to not think about Eames. Or think something new about Eames.  
  
He'd been at a _party_. More than that, a party he was okay with Arthur knowing about. With people he knew. Who had invited him. That was good. That was what Arthur had wanted. Eames was branching out, making connections, and sure, they were hardly sturdy connections yet, but they had been _made_. And he was doing his art, which was taking a life of it's own, and this was good, it was all...good. Everything was...going to be good.  
  
He just hadn't really planned so much for what would happen _after_ Eames had done what Arthur wanted form him. He'd sort of suspected Eames would stop wanting it, but... he really, really hadn't. And one of these days Arthur was going to look at Eames and go "Oh." And he had no plans for after that. Ideas, yes, but idea were not plans. They were the limping indication that a plan was needed.   
  
"This is boring." Callie threw he coloring book to the ground.  
  
"This is driving." Arthur said.  
  
There was a pause.  
  
"You're supposed to entertain me."  
  
"Entertain yourself." Arthur says, "If you had a little sister or brother the two of you could fight in the backseat and leave me in peace."  
  
"Mom says that I'm special enough that there never needs to be more of me."  
  
"That's certainly true. What was it that you did during the Christmas recital last year? When you didn't get the solo?"  
  
"I stole the microphone and did it myself, because the girl who had it was ugly, and I had a new dress, so they should see my new dress." She puffed up.  
  
"That's right, I remember. And stamped on her foot."  
  
Callie nods, proud as punch, and picks up a new coloring book. "Mom yelled at me, but it was fine, because I got cookies afterward." and Arthur just keeps driving. This is what happens, he thinks, when you don't sign kids up for every extracurricular activity you can find right from the get-go, or magically have a child that knows how to entertain themselves.   
  
"Where did Mom and Dad go?"  
  
"No idea." Hotel. "Out to eat maybe."  
  
"We never go out to eat anymore."  
  
"I wonder why that is."  
  
"Mom is mean." Callie kicks the back of his seat, and then when he fails to respond, kicks it again and then just keeps going. He steers the car to the shoulder and then stops and leans on the wheel. She kicks harder for awhile. "Keep going."  
  
Arthur turns and looks at her and she kicks again, and he waits. "I will wait here. The zoo closes at 3pm, It is currently 9am. You have six hours to stop kicking my seat, though you'll get tired first, and then I'll drive us to the zoo and you'll have to walk."  
  
She scowls and he scowls back and she stops kicking. He waits.  
  
"Go! I want to go to the zoo."  
  
"You kicked the seat twelve times. We're going to wait here for twelve minutes. If you kick again, I start the count over."  
  
"That's not fair."  
  
"You kick the seat, I don't drive. That's plenty fair. Don't kick the seat, and we go to the zoo." Arthur doesn't know how he thought Eames was childish, exactly, at the moment. Sometimes he thinks he is, a little bit, but you can't confuse what Callie is doing, for how Eames acts. He's selfish and unpolished and bossy, sure he is, but he also honestly tries to help and not be a bother, which is so removed from what Callie is doing as to be alien.  
  
It's going to be a long day.

 

####  [Re: Rule Ten (Part 135)](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3630250#cmt3630250)

on 2011-02-23 02:24 am (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

How about instead of this, I write 3,904,890,589,834,859,037,459,349,547,587,598,347 words about Arthur and Eames snuggling up next to a space heater and drinking tea and being unnaturally cozy.  
  
They speed walked through the zoo, which was hardly surprising. She looked at the animals for roughly ten seconds before demanding they see a different animal on the other side of the zoo, and then repeating. Arthur informed her that the plan was inefficient, but she just said her way was best, and he figured it would tire her out and he wasn't going to worry about it.  
  
The lions and other big cats were lazying around, with the exception of the jaguar that had to be kept enclosed, because jaguars laughed in the face of jumping heights, and he paced around relentlessly until Arthur started to feel anxious. The otter exhibit was under construction, the reptiles were "icky" the birds "stared too much" and the giraffes, zebra, gazelles and wildebeests all "smelled."  
  
"Mom won't let me have sugar because she says I get too hyper, but I don't actually bounce off the walls. But I'm going to get really, really hyper, you know." She eats another dollop of cotton candy.  
  
"Science has proven that sugar actually doesn't cause any more hyperactivity in children then anything else they're fed that is brightly colored and sweet, and in fact can have an effect similar to heroin. People addicted to heroin aren't known for their boisterousness." Arthur says, because she's not listening anymore, and it wouldn't make sense to her even if she was. He just trails on behind her and stays attentive. She's had ice cream, Dippin Dots, and a soda, and she'd about thrown a fit wanting a Smoothie to go with her soda, except even after getitng herself into a huff and looking ready to scream, Arthur had just stared back at her.  
  
"I'll make a scene."  
  
"Go ahead." Arthur said, standing in the middle of the Jungle Safari Pathway, and she had kept staring and he'd kept staring back, and he wondered the last time she'd _actually_ had to throw a full blown fit, or if she got this far and someone gave in. "I can wait." He added.  
  
"I hate you." She stormed off and he just followed. "Stop following me."  
  
"That would be child endangerment." He replied, and she tried to lose him in the crowd, bu her had a longer stride and she was in a Princess dress, so eventually she just scowled at him and drank her soda and they walked to see the tropical fish, before she declared those boring as well.  
  
"Why are you with _your_ kids?" She asked after he continued his clearly very disruptive task of making sure she didn't get eaten by lions, or kidnapped, or what-have-you.   
  
"Don't have any."  
  
"All adults have kids."  
  
"Only in suburbia," Arthur replied.  
  
"Carry me."  
  
"No."  
  
"But I'm tried." She whined, high pitched and grating and he leaned against one of the sign posts.  
  
"As I sai dyou'd be when you decided to run all the way across the zoo for each animal."  
  
"Daddy would carry me." She whined, higher, and he liked how kids could one second decided they hated you, and the next demand you carry them. "I'm a Princess." She added and he wondered if anyone had ever taken Eames to a zoo. He'd have probably wanted to look at each and every animal, sitting outside their enclosures for ages before moving to the next one with deliberation.  
  
"I'll cry." She adds.  
  
"I'll sit here." He confirms.  
  
"When I cry I get really loud and everyone stares and mom always ends up getting me stuff because everyone stares and they'll think you're a bad man and they'll put you in prison and you'll die."  
  
"I'm willing to take that risk. Are you willing to have a tantrum and then have me take you back."  
  
"I don't want to go back, I wan to see the zoo."  
  
"Then let's go."  
  
"But I'm tired."  
  
"Then we can sit on a bench for awhile."  
  
"You need to carry me." She reaches upwards again and he just stands there until she storms off to the aquatic mammal enclosure.

 

####  [Re: Rule Ten (Part 136)](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3632042#cmt3632042)

on 2011-02-23 02:50 am (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

These are not transcribed conversations. No sir.  
  
When Arthur went to the zoo he had an enacting battle plan on how to get the most out of the various enclosures, exhibits and attractions with the least amount of effort. He had a map and a battle plan, knew everyone's favorite animals so they could spend the maximum amount of time with them, and knew the ones no ones care about so he could adjust his tour to move by them on the way to something more interesting, or just cut them out entirely.  
  
He would have done that here, but Callie has either caught her second-wind, or is just angry enough that she's speeding through the crowd again, and he jogs after her.  
  
  
The one problem with this plan is that while Callie needs him, she doesn't want him to be there. Or, possibly, anyone. He only gets updates about what she did in bursts and spurts, and they're all generally along the lines of the Christmas Recital story. The problem with Jack was that he'd always been a peacemaker, since Arthur was...well, _intense_ , and Andrew had always been the type to be chased by either literal or metaphorical bees, and so often had one in his bonnet, as it were. And he had, of course, married a woman who was very much like him in that she despised confrontation, and between the two of them, raised a child who took complete advantage.   
  
Arthur was no looking forward to stories about what she was like as a middle schooler. Or, maybe he was, but with a sort of sick fascination.  
  
He wonders how Eames is going to deal with his brother.   
  
"So you don't have a wife?"  
  
"No." Arthur says, and wonders exactly how much he's allowed to explain to Callie about when a man loves another man who is several years too young for him, and said man also likes tying other men up for fun and hitting their bottoms until they're fire engine red and then snuggling the stuffing out of them.  
  
"Is it because no one loves you?" Callie asked, sitting on the bench next to him. "I'm going to get married when I'm 18, and I'll be rich and I'll have an island and no one else can come."  
  
"Nope. And you enjoy that." Arthur says.  
  
"If you don't have a wife then no one must like you. I don't like you."  
  
"Oh I have lots of people who want to marry me." Arthur says, fixing his cuffs. "they just line down the street. Just the other day I had a woman throw herself into my arms and beg me to marry her. Said she'd just die if I didn't, I was all she could think about, she couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, couldn't get through a single day without me."  
  
"No you didn't."  
  
"And I said no, because she threw herself onto the ground and had a tantrum when I didn't get her just the ring she wanted, and no one likes a person who throws a tantrum when they don't get what they want."  
  
She juts her chin out and he shrugs. "When everyone is staring when you make a scene they're staring at _you_."  
  
"I don't care." She sniffed.  
  
"Which is a shame, because there are better way to get what you want without having people want to avoid you."  
  
"I _don't care_ , and you're dumb and don't even have a wife and so you're dumb." She kicked the post while some kids nearby talked about licking the Liberty Bell's crack and then giggling, and somewhere there were chickens clucking.  
  
"Suit yourself." Arthur said and wanted to go home already so badly his teeth ached.  
  
"Elephants." She declared, and they were off and Arthur hunkered down.

\---

  
  
He comes back exhausted down to his marrow, brain buzzing an feet aching and he just lies in his childhood bed and thinks _When Eames is ready I'm going to sit on his lap and just say I love you I love you I love you until he cries with it_ and he drags his hips in one, long self indulgent thrust against the mattress.  
  
Or maybe he'll just mention that Eames has fulfilled his requirements and let Eames go from there, see what he does. Maybe Eames will crawl in his lap. maybe Eames will just stand there. Maybe Eames will tackle him and Arthur will get to push him to the floor and-  
  
"Arthur? Sweetie? We're having gin and tonics. Do you want one? Your father got fresh limes, so we don't even need to use the juice."  
  
Arthur pushes himself up. "Sure mom, I'll be right out."

_Edited on 2011-02-23 02:53 am (UTC)_

 

####  [Re: Rule Ten (Part 137)](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3635882#cmt3635882)

on 2011-02-23 03:42 am (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

More Tomorrow  
  
The day before Arthur gets back Eames cleans. It's not going to be anything like how Arthur cleans-which is like he's going to war, or something-but he throws the trash away and wheels the garbage to the curb and vacuums and does the laundry and everything, and it doesn't look too bad, he doesn't think. It's not like he dusts or anything, but it should be fine.  
  
And maybe he should be out of the house when Arthur gets back, but it's been a fucking month and Eames isn't going to wait another day. If having Arthur around all the time is it's own sort of...weird, psychological torture, then having him completely gone excerpt for intermittent phone conversations and like...random flurries of texting, that was like...well. Worse than that. Like he's aware of all the moments that _should_ have Arthur in them, even the little, tiny, dumb ones. So now he's all...growing fonder for the absence, and he didn't _need_ to be _any fonder_.  
  
"You think he's more fond of me now, though?" He asks Sammy as they sit out in the back garden, after having tilled the vegetable plot again, and prepared all the flower beds as well. "He sounds like it, you know, and I have to be better company, right? Then a four year old, or whatever."  
  
Sammy keeps tugging on her rope and he holds on, twisting it back and forth. "But he missed me, right? You think? You think he noticed all those moments I should be there? I had you, and so it wasn't all bad. You and Ari and all. And he had his family, and his family is all fairy tale perfect, so maybe he didn't notice. Or maybe I'm dumb for obsessing over this, huh?"  
  
He takes her rope and runs a victory lap around the yard with it, before mock-offering it back to Eames to tug again and he does, just like he does every other time. "When he dumps me after I get older, or whatever, do you think it'll just be like this the next time? All waiting around and obsessing whatever, or will be just skip straight to the fucking?"  
  
Sammy digs her heels in and tugs and he lets go earlier than normal so she just drops it and kicks it around a little.  
  
"Well it's not like I wanted to go straight to the fucking with Arthur. He was just some guy, right? But I have friends now, right? I have you, and I have Ari and I have...stuff...going on. I built you your thing." He gestures, and it's true. He did build her a thing. It's less a dog house and more a dog shed, since all the dog houses seemed to small, but he made a shed and it has a bar lock on the door, but also a flap for her to get in and out of, and inside she has a bed and another water dish and some toys, and he and her had sat out in it for awhile to her used to the idea.  
  
But she still slept in bed with him, because it got too dark and too creaky and too lonely without her, so why bother? And Arthur's bed had stopped smelling like him completely over a week ago, and...yeah. So Sammy slept with him. Tomorrow he was going to hug the fuck out of Arthur. He was. He was going to hug the _fuck_ out of him and then everything could go back to normal, right? Arthur would have gotten his head cleared and everything could be good again.   
  
Or Eames would just send himself away for awhile. Maybe a self-imposed exile would be better for Arthur, right? He'd visit Sammy, but...he could worry about that later.  
  
"Do you have any idea what sort of mess you've gotten yourself stuck in?" He asks Sammy and she smiles at him, because she just knows she's fucking adorable and nothing needs to ever bother her, because she has a big, strong Eames to take care of her, and Eames can't fault her on her impeccable logic. "Well it's a mess. But I got a call back for an interview or whatever, so soon we'll have a bit of money to fall back on and if anything goes south you and me will find something to do."  
  
She picks up the rope and he grabs the other end and pulls.

 

####  [Re: Rule Ten (Part 138)](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3652778#cmt3652778)

on 2011-02-25 01:09 am (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

Sorry for no updates yesterday, had to get my  [**kinkelot**](http://kinkelot.livejournal.com/) challenge done.  
  
Arthur has no idea how Eames managed to get to the airport by himself, but he there, waiting with the crowd, and he's even got a little cardboard sign and a smirk and Arthur just keeps walking and flings his arm out to puts him in a headlock. Eames laughs and they sort of crab-walk all the way to the baggage claim, Eames bent double and his hand around Arthur wrist. It breaks the tension that could have started and Eames takes Arthur's bags for him as they head to where Arthur long-term parked.  
  
Arthur just wants to go home, shower, and sleep in his bed, because it's been a long month, and he finished his parent's downstairs bathroom, which was all one could reasonably expect a man to finish in a month. Give him a year and he would a.) go mad and b.) have that entire house flipped and ready to sell at a considerable mark-up so his parents could move somewhere more suitable to the fact that they had a four bedroom house when they just needed the one.  
  
"You hungry?" He asks, because Eames inevitably is and it's just something he does. Make sure Eames gets fed, make sure Eames is fine, makes sure Eames does his homework. He hadn't fallen into that pattern with Callie, so he doesn't think it's babying him, is it? Mom always checks if Arthur has eaten, though, but she does that to Dad as well. So maybe it's just a sign of affection, and it doesn't mean he's treating Eames like a child.   
  
"Could eat." Eames says, and flicks on the radio. Eames doesn't have a preferred kind of music, far as Arthur can tell. He likes bits of pieces of things, he'll listen to whatever is on, but he doesn't go out of his way to find one genre over another. Arthur hadn't thought about it before, that he didn't know what Eames liked in terms of music, because it felt like something he should know. You should know your boyfriend's favorite type of music.  
  
Would they call themselves boyfriends? Is that what you call that? He needs to figure out the details, there's too many gaps in his knowledge base, and he doesn't have any plans. It's all just ideas and guesswork, and that's sloppy. That's why he hasn't been able to get anywhere, he doesn't have an _plans_ , and he can just make some, and then it'll be easier from there. He always feels better when he has a set idea of what he's going to do.   
  
"Music." Arthur says.  
  
"Playing." Eames responds.  
  
"No, your favorite. What is it?"  
  
Eames drums his fingers against the dashboard. "Haven't found it yet. I'll listen to whatever. Whatever fills up the room, you know? Why? You hate this?"  
  
"No, it's fine." It's one of Arthur's pre-sets, so of course it's fine. "Just wondering."  
  
"Well you like jazz standards and big band." Eames says, smirking to himself as he fiddles with his nails. "Haven't you heard you listen to a thing made in the last fifty years. Or dress in anything from the last fifty years." Eames prods him. "What's up with that, grandpa."  
  
"Keep shut, you crazy whippersnapper." Arthur replies and shoves back and Eames laughs against the window, quick and delighted and Arthur smiles to himself, because it's good to see that Eames is fine. That he didn't just...sit in the dark and sniff Arthur's pillows. Not that he'd been worried too much about it, but...well.   
  
"Should I get off your lawn?"  
  
"Unless you mowing it for a dime and a pat on the head," Arthur confirms and Eames smiles and then he's fidgeting again, biting his thumb nail. He's chewing something over in his head and it's either going to take Eames all night to spit it out, or Arthur has to dislodge it with a firm thwap of conversation.  
  
"What?" he asks, because he wants to sleep at some point.  
  
"What?" Eames asks around his nail and Arthur shoots him a sideways glance before merging onto the Interstate and Eames fidgets a bit longer before sighing. "Get your head figured out?"  
  
"Maybe." Arthur says. "Too exhausted to tell at the moment. I babysat my niece every single day of the last few weeks. She's...a handful."  
  
Eames snorts. "Yeah, heard that before. But. You're alright, right?"  
  
"Yeah. You?"  
  
"M'fine, mate. Built Sammy a shed around back. Ariadne helped me get everything. So that's there."

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fine! Four! Four chapters! Four chapters of this!

[Re: Rule Ten (Part 139)](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3656618#cmt3656618)

on 2011-02-25 05:06 am (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

"Good." Arthur says, "Not that she needs it, seeing as she's with you all the time."  
  
"Well. You know." Eames shrugs. "When we let her out in the yard because we want to fuck in the kitchen."  
  
Arthur grips the wheel and Eames is looking at him, like he's testing for a response and Arthur realizes he changed lines and was ready to go the shoulder, so instead he just takes the next exit and looks around for someplace to eat.  
  
They find a generic sit-down and the waitress gets them a corner booth and Eames sits down next to him instead of across and then doesn't look up.   
  
"So, I take it you missed me."  
  
Eames looks down at his napkins and silverware. "Yeah, well. You don't want that, then maybe you shouldn't leave."  
  
"I will take that under advisement," and Arthur doesn't even care how the waitress is looking at them, just orders himself an iced tea and Eames a Coke and relishes the feeling of Eames all along his arm.  
  
The food comes. They eat. Arthur doesn't have anything to say, exactly, and Eames is warm and pressing in next to him, but otherwise minding himself, and he wonders what's waiting underneath Eames skin when they get home. He needs something, that's obvious, Arthur expected nothing else. He'll be skin hungry and Arthur can take care of that as best he can before he collapses somewhere.   
  
Arthur pays, as he always does, and will, until Eames finds a job that pays well enough, because Arthur has money he doesn't need and Eames doesn't, so there's no point in splitting the bill, and Eames smiles to himself as Arthur takes the receipt and they head out and Eames is still there, arm next to his arm, and Arthur is going to wait until he asks for it, because that's the rule.   
  
The ride back is quiet enough, Eames is sinking into the seat like he has been able to relax in weeks and Arthur can't blame him, he's always nervous when Eames isn't somewhere Arthur knows he isn't doing something dumb. He got enough calls in those first two months to sink into his brain for a lifetime. When he drove out at 4am-because he said he would and Eames wanted to know if he meant it- of Eames needing a ride when he was fucking blown out his mind on ecstasy, cuddling up to Arthur, friendly and laughing and Arthur needing to belt him in and hold his hand so he wouldn't try anything, or drunk and vomiting into his toilet, or stinking of pot, red-eyed and dripping down the seat, babbling to himself about stuff. He'd only seen Eames on hallucinogens once, and Eames had been terrified the entire ride home, coming off of it as they got in the door, pale and shaking. And when he wasn't on _something_ he'd bleeding from somewhere, or bruised. It was only once or twice that he'd pick up Eames and Eames had just been under a street lamp, no obvious ill effects and he'd just, curl up in the passenger side and not say anything the ride back.  
  
He did that so rarely, now, that it hardly mattered, but the idea that Eames _would_ go off and do something dumb had already cemented itself in Arthur's head to the point where it was just better if Eames was where he was put. Neater.  
  
They got inside and Sammy launched herself at Eames, and only after hopping up and down in frantic devotion and making sure Eames was fine, did she sniff Arthur and smile at him politely.  
  
Eames brings the bags to Arthur's room and then stands in the door way as Arthur looks at his bed and wants to be _in it_ and _asleep_ almost more than anything.  
  
"I need to sleep, so if you need something from me you should ask for it now." Arthur says, standing on the other side of the doorframe, like there's on two sides of magical portal, or something, instead of just a line of different shades of carpet.  
  
Eames grips on the doorframe and instead of looking bashful or ashamed he smiles to himself and he's leaning against the frame, like he won't let himself inside, but he's trying to get in anyways. "You've been away awhile." He says instead of asking.  
  
"I have." Arthur agrees, removing his tie and hanging it in the closet as Eames continues to stand there, watching.

 

####  [Re: Rule Ten (Part 140)](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3657898#cmt3657898)

on 2011-02-25 05:22 am (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

More Tomorrow.  
  
"May I have a kiss?" Eames asks, and when Arthur looks at him he's all smiles, all crooked teeth and bright eyes. And that's delicious, that's _wonderful_ , because that means Eames is comfortable. He's asking because he knows he can have it, not because he's terrified he won't.  
  
Arthur undoes his cuffs and removes his shirt, standing there in his undershirt and pants and Eames is staring, of course he is. If Arthur said he could, Eames would rip into the room and try and wrestle him into the floor. Arthur's heart speeds and he moves closer to the door. Just out of reach and Eames stays put like he was tied there.  
  
"Is that all you need?" Arthur asks. "Just a kiss before I go to bed? You go a month and all you need is a quick peck?"  
  
"No," Eames says. "Not all I need."  
  
"Say it all." Arthur watches him and Eames swallows, but he's still loose and relaxed where he stands.   
  
"I need to touch you. Can I touch you?" Eames asks, eyes flicking down to Arthur's neck and and the dip of his collar and then back up. "I'll be good," he adds.  
  
Arthur considers this. "If you could touch me anywhere-excluding the obvious-where would you?"  
  
Eames eyes drop, but not to Arthur fly, like he would think, but all the way to his stocking feet and Arthur cocks his head and follows his gaze. Then Eames flushes and looks away and Arthur leans against the doorframe.  
  
"Interesting, but later." Arthur says, "Give me your hands."  
  
Eames drops them from the wood and just...gives them over to Arthur. Arthur will think about this later, but right now he just slides them around his waist and Eames' breath catches, fingers light, so very light and careful. Arthur soaks up the warmth of Eames' fingers through the thin cotton of his shirt like he's hungry for it and Eames just keeps staring at where his fingers press into the cloth.  
  
"And what else?" Arthur asks and Eames looks back up at his mouth and licks his lips, slow and careful and Arthur can't help but watch.  
  
"A kiss. I would like a kiss."  
  
Arthur pulls him in by the neck, and he relishes the difference between how he's gripping onto Eames, hard, and how Eames is still just touching lightly, carefully. Eames lips are soft and Arthur attacks into them, because it's been a month thinking about this boy. Man. Eames.   
  
A month of him and no _actual_ him and he's used to be able to touch, to be able to reach and find skin, to being watched and needed and wanted, and he knows it was his choice to leave, and he _did_ need to leave, but he also has grown addicted to this, to Eames skin and his smell and the way he's always there, just in reach, just waiting for whatever Arthur will give him.  
  
He pulls back when a kiss stretches into what Eames would call a snog, and Eames blinks at him, lip puffed and red and wet and he stares. "Missed you." He says.  
  
"Same." Arthur replies and lets his fingers drag along Eames jaw so Eames understands what means. Eames slips his hands away, regretfully and he steps back, slowly, waiting for Arthur to change him mind. To say "Now." But Arthur's not going to. Not yet. They're close, they're agonizingly, fiercely close, but not...yet.  
  
So Eames looks away.  
  
"See you when you get up." Eames says, looking down the hall, dragging a hand over his head and checking to make sure Arthur hasn't faded away again. "Yeah?"  
  
"We'll have pancakes." Arthur says and Eames smiles and goes down the hall. Arthur closes the door behind him and finishes undressing, flicking off the lights.   
  
It's only when he's got his face in the pillow and is fully under the covers that he realizes the entire bed-the pillow, the sheets, the blanket- smell completely and utterly of Eames.

 

 

####  [Re: Rule Ten (Part 141)](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3670442#cmt3670442)

on 2011-02-26 02:50 am (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

I was all WHAT DO I WRITE TONIGHT and then I was like WANKING!  
  
Arthur let out a noise into his pillow, and rolled over, but every single _inch_ of his bed smelled like Eames, and Arthur scraped his cheek against the pillow. So Eames had been here. Not just once or twice, but here nightly. And Arthur isn't surprised, not really, this is something Eames would do.   
  
But he hasn't gotten off in a month, and he lies down-tired, mentally exhausted, a bit giddy from coming home and Eames being so easy and warm and welcoming-and he lies down just to sleep and his bed is _soaked_ with the smell of his...of Eames and he can't be expected to withstand that. His dick is hard in his briefs and his balls are overly full and aching and he grips his pillow and stretches out along the sheets, warm and limp with use. Eames could have washed the sheets and blankets, hidden any hint that he'd been in this bed.  
  
But he'd left these here for Arthur to find. He'd engineered it so he'd be touching Arthur, that they'd be kissing, and then Arthur would go to sleep in a bed that reeked of him and Arthur couldn't help but laugh into the sheets, because Eames was a devious bastard.  
  
Arthur rolls over to his bed stand and fumbles out the bottle of lube and drizzles some into his palm. His dick is sore from trying and failing to get off and his slick, cool hand is a balm on the tender skin. He hisses into the pillow and the sighs into the friction.  
  
He doesn't have any plans, not after just...saying that they could. After that it was just...ideas, snippets of information-the way Eames' eye had dropped to his feet, the way Eames' entire body turned and went...receptive...at the sound of Arthur's voice. Rules he could make, and the ways Eames would bend for him. The things Eames would murmur to him, or demand of him, or ask of him. Ideas of who Eames was going to be in a year, or two, or five, growing up comfortable with himself, because it was good that he could discover his sexuality with someone receptive to it. That was one good thing from all of this. Or. Or no. No, it's not the _one_ good thing, but the one good thing about the...mess of it. That maybe Eames is a submissive homosexual man, and if he and Arthur hadn't met then Eames wouldn't be taking it so easily.   
  
He wouldn't have someone so receptive to him, he wouldn't be able to explore freely, safely, with Arthur he can...grow up. How he needs to. Eames can grow up how he needs to, this way. And it's that worth it? Shouldn't that be worth everything?   
  
Arthur inhales again, fills his lungs with Eames and tightens his fist, pushes against the heat, fingers readjusting and his hold is brutal and he shudders with it, and Eames has been here. He's jerked off in Arthur's bed, missing Arthur, going out, being a good...good boy-fuck. Arthur's fist is slippery and warm and he's close, he's been close, he's been holding it off for a month and he can't last any longer. Not with Eames smell in his nostrils and the image of him try, oh God _trying_ to be good, but unable to help himself.  
  
His hand quickens, sliding over his dick, hot and tight and he his thighs are slick with sweat and his body is tightened down to a hard coil and it's been so _long_ , it's been ages, imagining and wanting and he's finally _home_ and his home is drenched and dripping with Eames, Eames is spilling over the edges of Arthur's life and Arthur, for a moment, thinks he's okay with the mess.  
  
The door doesn't creak, none of his doors creak, but Arthur opens his eyes, because he feels it, and there Eames is, eyes glittering the dark and Arthur pauses, breathing in the dark, and this was Eames' plan.   
  
"Eames." Arthur says.  
  
"Just let me," Eames says, quiet, "I won't come in, or anything, I just...I want to see."  
  
"Eames you can't." Arthur says and Eames doesn't come in, he just stays there, on the other side of the door, wanting and Arthur's fist shudders downwards and he doesn't like being this open and he doesn't like being vulnerable and Eames is standing there, waiting and Arthur is not going to put on a show for him.  
  
"Eames, this isn't how it works."  
  
"You've been gone." Eames says.

 

####  [Re: Rule Ten (Part 142)](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3675050#cmt3675050)

on 2011-02-26 03:55 am (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

Giving you what you wanted. Aren't you excited?  
  
"That doesn't mean you get to watch," Arthur is hanging on by his last thread of self-restraint, and it has been a month and he has _missed_ Eames with a a frightening, angry persistence that has nothing to do with the future and everything to do with four months of being with someone and then a fifth month doing nothing but thinking about them and he isn't perfect. He's not even good, most of the time.  
  
"I won't say anything." Eames' voice cracks, "I won't come any closer, just, let me have this?"  
  
"You jerked off in my bed." Arthur says, hips moving upwards, the slow, fleshy noise of his dick sliding across his palm the only other sound in the room and Eames' breath quickens. "You jerked off in my bed and now you think you get to watch me?"  
  
Eames doesn't say anything and Arthur pulls the covers off and Eames makes a noise, a desperate, needing noise and Arthur doesn't care if he looks ridiculous because Eames is right there and the only thought the _only thought_ left in his head is that Eames is being _bad_ and he's hard and it's been a month, and it's been _more_ than that, it' been a daily assault on him from this...this...fucking... he can't. He's tired and he's missed him and he keeps going until Eames is pinned against the hallway wall.   
  
"If you need something, you ask for it, and I'll give it to you. But this isn't something you need, Eames, this is something you want. You've gotten greedy, and if you _want_ something, you have to earn it."  
  
"Is that a rule?" Eames asks and Arthur thumps him again, and Eames is watching him, not a hint of fear anywhere, even though Arthur's got him pressed against the wall and is so... mad...or...fuck, he can't _think_. "Rule Eleven?"  
  
"No, it's not, because right now you can't _do_ anything to earn what you want. You've got nothing to bargain with, so I can't make it a rule. It'd be mean, of me, wouldn't it, to say you could have all those many, many things you want, but you have no way of getting them. You just have to wait and see if I decide to give it to you."  
  
"Please," Eames asks, and it's honest and it's open and now Eames is the one whose vulnerable and Arthur is in charge, and it settles around him like comfort, or power, or _something_ , and he does know what he's doing. He doesn't have an excuse, or he has plenty of excuses, but they aren't going to do a thing for him later. He's going to hate himself later, but right _now_ Eames is warm and he smells good and it's been...  
  
It's been forever and spins him around until his cheek is next to the wall and he wraps his hand around Eames eyes. "You do not _get_ to watch. You don't get to see anything. You need to earn that, and as a hint? You don't earn things by being a manipulative brat. You get to stand there, as I get off, and see nothing."  
  
"Arthur, Arthur I just..." Eames is trying to explain, but Arthur can't hear it, he can't... it's been bubbling up too long and this is what happens. This is where the pressure lets out. Right when Eames is in the blast radius, because how else was it going to do?   
  
"No." Arthur says and Eames shuts up, tense and still and Arthur wraps a hand around his cock and it _hurts_ , his balls ache and he's dripping precome until the lube and semen are a messy smear over his briefs and his hand and Eames twists and Arthur holds him there.   
  
"You come to my bed and jerk off, and then you leave me with a bed that smells like my...like you, and _then_ , because you have done _everything_ you're devious brain could work up to make me want to jerk off, you decide you deserve a free show. You don't. You deserve to stand in the corner and hear what you aren't allowed to have."  
  
"Arthur, I just...I just wanted to see. I won't-"  
  
"You won't anything." Arthur agrees. "You are going to stand there, and I am going to get off, and I will send you back to your room and you will go and you will not-" Arthur tries to bite it back, but Eames is warm and he wants it so fucking badly, and he's close and this is... Arthur can't... "you are not going to jerk of yourself. You're going to lie there and think about what you did."

 

 

 

####  [Re: Rule Ten (Part 143)](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3675818#cmt3675818)

on 2011-02-26 03:59 am (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

More Tomorrow.  
Eames basically melts into the wall, because _this_ is what he must have been hoping for. To catch Arthur horny and angry and just this side of dangerous and so far past his tipping point that they're just going to have to crash together, now, because Eames isn't going to stop him. Arthur cannot trust Eames to stop him.  
  
Arthur presses his head between Eames shoulder blades, inhales his sweat and musk and he lasts two thrusts before he's coming against the wall and over his fist and against Eames and who knows where else, because he can't even _think_ , and Eames is suddenly turned around and catching him before he just...falls, because everything in his head has been obliterated. It's gone. There's no landscape anymore, no well-worn ravines and canyons of thought, it's silence and flatness and emptiness and it's nothing like his focus boiling down, and nothing like the muzziness of relaxation. It's just...gone. Hard reset.  
  
When he can track what's going on, again, Eames is wrapped around him, hard, of course. Shirtless. But also holding on-not, like he thinks Arthur is going to break, but like he's very aware of every inch of him that's touching Arthur and is holding himself back. Reverent, it feels like, in the dazzled, pleasured afterglow of...words. That Arthur should know.   
  
He lets himself rest against Eames for longer than he should, but hell, that's the theme of the night, right? Let himself do things he shouldn't, and he's going to pay for this. Tomorrow he's going to wake up and find himself in debt to the monster in his mental closet and he has no idea when he's going to be able to pay it off.  
  
Eames is petting him, not much, and maybe he's not thinking, but it isn't Eames job to think. He's all teenage impulse and bad choices and Arthur needs to be the responsible one. The one who doesn't think with his dick and doesn't...do...what he just did. That's the only way this can work. It's the only option. And Arthur has failed.  
  
Arthur tugs away and Eames holds, folded in half and he's begging, but not...he's not begging like Arthur thought he might. Not for himself.  
  
"Don't feel bad about this," Eames begs, desperate, more desperate than he's been before and Arthur doesn't understand right away.  
  
"Please, please don't feel bad about this. I'm sorry, I didn't...I didn't mean for you to notice. I didn't mean to open the door. Please don't get mad. We don't need to talk about it. I won't do it again. Please- I need you not to feel bad. I need that. I'm asking. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, please don't...leave. Again. I'll make it up to you, I'll be better, I won't...I didn't think...Please."  
  
So he noticed the guilt.   
  
Arthur breathes and extracts himself. Eames doesn't let go right away, but then his hands drop and Arthur is tucking himself away and looking back into his bedroom.  
  
"You don't need that." Arthur says, "Go to your room."  
  
"Arthur-"  
  
He can't tell Eames where to go. He's not allowed. Arthur rubs his head and tries to shake the thought-feels real, feels like fact-out of his head.  
  
"Or stay out here. Or do...what you want." Arthur is tired, tired beyond reckoning, and he's going to go to bed and...deal with this in the morning. "Just, leave me alone for awhile." It wasn't up to Eames to stop him. Eames knew his limits, but of course he pushed. That's what he did, just like he'd test any restraint, and Arthur's knots didn't hold. It wasn't Eames fault for pushing and finding a weak point. Just Arthur's.  
  
"Arthur-"   
  
But Arthur can't hear it. He can't...he just...this is...this is bad. He closes the door behind him and just slides down, because the bed smells like Eames, and the _room_ smells like Eames, and Eames pushed and Arthur fell back, and there's nothing in him that can allow that. Arthur presses his forehead to his knees and covers his head with his arms and just...sits there...and doesn't listen and doesn't listen and doesn't listen.

 

 

####  [ **Re: Rule Ten (Part 144)** ](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3697322#cmt3697322)

on 2011-02-27 03:34 am (UTC)

Posted by  [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

As an aside, I really do like how I have now written a fic that people write essays for. I would participate, but I know how this ends and what's going on in the character's heads, but it is delicious to see how all of you are participating in this story. I wouldn't trade that for anything.  
  
Arthur doesn't come down, the next morning. Eames waits, and he doesn't come down. Arthur is nothing if not punctual, nothing if not _dependable_ and Eames can't help but wonder if he finally just broke him. Pushed too hard too fast and he just...broke Arthur.   
  
So, Eames gets up and makes pancakes and they are limp and flat and nothing like the golden, fluffy perfection that Arthur always flips up every time he gets the urge to, and Eames tries and he gets these folded up monstrosities, and most of them are burnt and raw in the middle, so he turns down the heat and then they just never cook. He gets the best three, puts them on top of each other and smears them with plenty of butter and syrup, then gets the tray and a glass of milk. When Eames is upset Arthur makes pancakes. Or food, some sort of food, Arthur always makes food.  
  
The only thing Eames can do is make is really crappy pancakes, and maybe he could pour some cereal, or heat up some soup, but you need to _make_ something when someone is upset. You can't call it in, and Eames goes up to Arthur's door. Sammy is still asleep in Eames bed, because she doesn't believe in getting up early. Eames balances the tray on one arm and knocks on the door.  
  
Arthur doesn't answer. Arthur always answers. Eames knocks again and then he needs to know if Arthur is alive, or like...rocking in the corner, or maybe he slipped out in the night and he's out...somewhere.   
  
No, he's sitting up when Eames comes in, naked, Eames thinks, under the sheets, knees cocked up, elbows on his knees, wrists limp, hands dangling and he's looking at his dresser like it means something.  
  
"I made...pancakes." Eames offers and Arthur takes a moment and then turns to look at Eames like it hurts him and Eames feels sick. Actually sick. And the smell of crap pancakes isn't making it better. Eames puts the tray down on the dresser and then his hands have nowhere to go because he's wearing sweats so he just crosses them, and Arthur is staring at him and this wasn't what Eames meant to happen. He just... he thought of it, and it was an impulse. A stupid impulse. Not manipulative or shit, he just. And now Arthur's mad at him.  
  
"They're not...your pancakes. But I think with enough butter you can make anything better." Eames says and grips his elbow. "I'll just...uh. I can head out."  
  
"Who are we?" Arthur asks, and he looks down at the sheets. "What are we doing?"  
  
Eames swallows, and he doesn't have an answer.   
  
"Am I your dad? Am I your brother? Am I your friend, your boyfriend, your dom, your mentor, what _am_ I?" Arthur's hair is mussed. Eames doesn't see Arthur hair mussed often. He sees it fraying at the edges, sure, but not _mussed_ , and here Arthur is, without a stitch of clothing, and without everything being pressed and prepared and Eames can't help but think that Arthur must hate this. Arthur hates anyone seeing him at less than his best.  
  
"Tell me, because I don't. I don't know. I think about fucking you, and then I worry if you've eaten, and I don't know if I'm making rules because you need them because kids need guidelines, or I'm making rules because you like how they feel. Hell, I don't even know if you actually consider yourself a submissive man or if you're just filling in my blanks." Arthur covers his mouth and he still isn't looking at Eames.  
  
"You're not my dad." Eames says, "S'not like that. I don't need a dad."  
  
Arthur laughs at him. Actually fucking _laughs._ And Eames feels like he's been slapped across the face. Arthur doesn't laugh at him. Arthur's never laughed at him. He's laughed at things Eames has said, but he doesn't...he doesn't laugh at Eames.

 

####  [ **Re: Rule Ten (Part 145)** ](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3697578#cmt3697578)

on 2011-02-27 03:37 am (UTC)

Posted by  [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

"You're _seventeen_ , of course you need a dad. Or a mom. At least _one_ of those, if nothing some combination of both. You need parents, and what do you have? I just. I don't even understand your mom, I really don't, it just doesn't compute. I _can't_ understand, and your step dad...so you have me. You have me, and." Arthur shuts up and Eames wants to step in, here, and say something, like...the next step of this is for Eames to butt in and say _something_ , but he doesn't have anything. He doesn't know how to comfort Arthur. He doesn't have the language.  
  
"There was a study, you know. With dolphins. They thought if dolphins learn language from the mother-since dolphins have language, and are intelligent enough to comprehend human orders-they had a woman live with a baby dolphin in a house that was constantly flooded. To try and give the dolphin a maternal figure so it could learn language. She ran tests and studies. But here's the thing." Arthur laughs behind his hand and then he's knitting his fingers and staring down at them. "The dolphin didn't see her as a mother. He saw her as a mate. he grew up and decided to start wooing her, got aggressive about it too, but that's beside the point."  
  
"I'm not a fucking dolphin." Eames says, "I know what I'm doing here."  
  
  
"No. You don't. You can't. _I_ have no idea what we're doing here, what we _think_ we're doing, so how can you?" Arthur drops his head until he;s holding it by hunks of hair and Eames steps closer and then thinks that'll make it worse, and he doesn't know how to fix this, make it like it was yesterday.  
  
"I want you." Eames says, because it's true. It's the truest thing he has, and Arthur can't laugh at that. If he does Eames isn't...he won't...deal with that. Well. He can't. But Arthur doesn't laugh and doesn't look at him and Eames sits on the edge of the bed. "I don't...I don't care how many people we are to each other. We can be Swiss Army knives, yeah? Got a personality for every occasion. And I'm growing up." Eames tries to duck and catch Arthur;s eyes but they've got blank and Eames' stomach aches and his throat is trying to strangle itself and he hates himself, _hates_ himself for doing this. One stupid impulse. But his stupid impulses always do this? That or his mum's. Let's marry a bloke, let's divorce him, let's shag until I get knocked up, let's move around, let's marry the first bloke again, let's have another baby, let's maybe move _again_.  
  
"I'm growing up, and soon I will be grown up and you won't need to be anything but what you want to be, yeah? I can handle myself, I can. I can't cook, but... I've been doing the rest of it. Mum hardly remembered to pay rent, so I did that, and fuck if she could do taxes, I mean really, but I kept all the receipts and all that. Been doing it since I was ten, when we got evicted one too many times, you know? No head for numbers, mum, but I can handle all that. I can handle myself." Eames is blathering and Arthur isn't interested, except his eyes flash up and he look _pissed_ , like Eames rolled over his best suit, or something. Worse. Fuck, Eames doesn't know.  
  
"You did the taxes," Arthur says slowly, "when you were ten."  
  
"Well I got help. Books. The librarian thought I was just gathering notes for my sick mum. Asked the neighbors. Not like I was some tax genius progeny or whatever. Did my head in, but they need to get done, right?"  
  
Arthur's jaw works and his hands curl up into fists and Eames thinks Arthur's going to punch something. Maybe him. Eames can take a punch though, so it's fine.   
  
"The first month you were here, every single night I just asked myself, _Where is his mother?_ I kept waiting for her to call and demand to know where you were, or for you to mention some lie you told her about where you were, or _anything_ , because I do not understand why a sixteen year old boy is allowed to just go to a twenty five year old man's house without her even knowing who I am."  
  
"She's busy, gets involved in projects and-"

 

####  [Re: Rule Ten (Part 146)](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3704490#cmt3704490)

on 2011-02-27 04:40 am (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

I sincerely love the sense of community that goes on in the comments. You guys have no idea.  
  
"The word you're looking for is _neglect_ , Eames." Arthur honestly looks like he could wrestle the world down to the bottom of the universe, looks angry enough to burn the house down. Eames isn't afraid though, not physically, but Arthur isn't going to take it back. He can't take it back. It's Rule 10, right there, he can't take it back. Eames just needs to fit the guidelines, that's what Arthur said.  
  
"It's fine, I can handle myself now, so it's good-"  
  
"It's not good." Arthur shouts and Eames jerks back. "In no conceivable world is that good Eames. You should be in your house, she should be breathing down your neck, she should have chewed me out ages ago, she should be seeing that you're fed, she should be seeing that you go to school, she should being doing her _own fucking taxes_ , you should. You should have been a kid. You should have the right to be a dumb kid with dumb kid friends, doing dumb kid shit, and fucking someone in the backseat of a car and you shouldn't even know who I _am_."  
  
"No." Eames says, "No, fuck that, no. You're the best part-'  
  
"I should be the _worst_ " Arthur yells again, and when Eames reaches Arthur grabs him by the wrists. "Do you get that? I am the perverted, sexual deviant who should be the _worst part_ of your life, if I'm in it at all, which in any sane world _I wouldn't be_. I should be the monster whose taking advantage of someone's son and she should report me to the police and send you to counseling. Do you understand that? Or are you too fucked up to understand that a twenty five year old man should not be raising a seventeen year old, and waiting for him to become his lover, and pressuring him into a dynamic that who the _fuck_ knows he actually identifies with? This is _wrong_." Arthur's voice cracks and Eames is still reaching and Arthur's grip falters and Eames is around him, and Eames didn't know, he didn't know it was... he doesn't. What is he supposed to do?   
  
"I'm too fucked up." Eames says, "Okay? I'm too fucked up, and I'm sorry, I'm sorry I'm fucked up, but all I got is who I am, and I'm sorry. I'm sorry I'm doing this to you."  
  
"No, no, no, fuck Eames." But Arthur is wrapped up around him and Eames doesn't know if Arthur cries, but if he did, he probably would be right now, and Eames just holds on and Arthur's grip is hard arms and angles and digging nails, and Eames is way too fucked up because Arthur is the best part of his life, and Arthur _can't take that away_ , except, clearly, he has to because fucking _look_ at him, Eames can't stay here, because _look at Arthur_.  
  
Arthur is shaking and Eames makes those stupid nonsense noises people make, and he doesn't think Arthur slept last night and the smell of those stupid pancakes is going to make him sick, if the nervousness doesn't, and nothing Eames can think to say is going to help.  
  
Nothing he can _do_ is going to help. He's a dumb teenager and Arthur has split himself in half trying to help him and Eames has got literally _nothing_ going on to help him. Of course this was going to happen. It's not like Arthur signed up for Eames. He just thought he was helping out a kid, maybe a once-a-week obligation, and look what Eames has done. Took the one good thing in his life and fucked it up until this happened.

 

####  [Re: Rule Ten (Part 147)](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3709354#cmt3709354)

on 2011-02-27 04:55 am (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

"And now?" Arthur's voice is shaking and Eames doesn't know what this means, it's bad, obviously, this is bad, because Arthur doesn't do this, he isn't _like_ this, so this is bad. Eames doesn't need to be a psychiatrist to figure out Arthur likes being in control of things and right now he's patently not and this is _bad_. " _Now_ , it's too late, because I'm the only responsible adult in your life. _Me_. _I_ am the responsible, fucking adult. The guy who wants to tie you down and hit you and fuck you and leave you bruised and-I make you _ask_ for a goddamn hug, but hey, at least I hug you, right?"  
  
"Stop it." Eames says, "Stop it. I'm not...we're not like that."  
  
"Then _what are we_ " Arthur comes up and they're sweating and maybe he was crying, who knows, it's incidental at this point.   
  
"I don't..." Eames' arms go numb and they slide off Arthur. "It's not like I feel indebted to you, or shit. I'm not some kid being lured into the van with candy, okay? Stop thinking like that."  
  
Arthur jaw works and Eames realizes that is what Arthur thinks of himself as. He pulls away, against the wall. "So, what, this whole time you've been...what? You really think I'm an idiot kid you're taking advantage of, right? Too stupid, or, no, I'm too _grateful_ to leave you, right? You show me some affection, and now I'm pissing for joy like...I'm not Sammy, here, Arthur. I'm not going to pant at your heels for some table scraps."  
  
"No," Arthur agrees. "But affection? Approval? Admiration? Attention? Go on. Tell me who else in your life is giving you those? You have to admit, it's a bit confusing, right? That on one hand I'm basically raising you-because you're seventeen and you need _someone_ , and it's become clear that there's no one else, but on the other hand." Arthur wipes his face off and looks away. "I shouldn't have done this, but if I didn't." Arthur curls in on himself again and this sounds like he's debated this before. "There's _nothing_ I can do that makes this okay. I have no ability to make this okay."   
  
Eames needs to leave. He needs to leave or he's going to...he needs to leave and not come back, because otherwise...Arthur can't do anything. He can't tell Eames to go, and he clearly can't deal with him staying. Eames didn't mean to do this.  
  
"I'm sorry." Eames says again.  
  
"It's not _your fault_. You have a human right to...to parental attention and instead you had to do _taxes_ when you're ten, and you have me and I'm not a good enough person for this. I should have said no. I should."  
  
Eames thinks maybe he should have just drowned in the tub when he was three and saved everyone the time and trouble. It's not the first time he's thought it, and he wouldn't kill himself on purpose, but if he'd drowned when he was three then it would have saved a lot of people a lot of time, overall. He thought, maybe, he made Arthur happy more than he made Arthur miserable, but Arthur had just been too tightly controlled to say anything. Trip away should have been a Big Fucking Hint, but Eames apparently couldn't catch one of those when it slapped him across the face.  
  
Arthur was never going to ask him to leave, he was just going to be like...this...inside...all the time, and even if-when-he got himself together, this would still be there. Arthur thinking of himself like a monster.

 

####  [Re: Rule Ten (Part 148)](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3711402#cmt3711402)

on 2011-02-27 05:02 am (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

MOAR MONDAY  
  
"I didn't mean to push." Eames says, because he is. He's sorry, he's sorry and he'll do whatever needs to be done to make up for it, as long as they can go back. He wants to go back to yesterday and he wants to touch Arthur and he wants Arthur to be happy and he would do anything. Anything Arthur could come up with.  
  
"Eames, fuck-" Arthur grabs him by the shoulders. "This is _not_ your fault. None of this is your fault-"  
  
"Yes it is. We're both here, and I pushed, if I hadn't then...and yeah, you should have told me earlier you were...fuck Arthur." Eames' voice is unsteady and he hates it. Hates not being able to keep calm, because Arthur isn't going to take him seriously if he cries. "I thought you... I was only doing all this shit because I thought you wanted me back, you know? But I can. I'm fine now." Eames gets out of the bed, "All better now."  
  
"What?"  
  
Eames' jaw hurts and his mouth fights to frown and he doesn't want to cry so he tries to pull it back and it won't. "I'm not so desperate for it that I'm going to pant for someone whose going to fuck me because he feels obligated to. Or pity, or...or whatever. Or maybe you want me. You must, I guess, or you wouldn't feel guilty. But I'm not..." Eames wipes his face. "I'll be out of your hair. I... the Cobbs can still take Sammy, right? And you can...do whatever, with the-it's your stuff, and."  
  
Arthur is staring at him and Eames doesn't want to go. That's the worst part. That Arthur looks like that and Eames still thinks he has any right to stay.  
  
"I love you." Arthur says and Eames completely stops. Maybe his heart stops. He doesn't know. But he stops and he can't breathe. "That's the problem. I would love to be able to just...help you grow up. And shove the romantic business under the rug, and I wouldn't tell you, but you're going to leave now, and you're going to run off, and you're going to do something _painfully_ idiotic, and not know. So."  
  
"Arthur, what do you want from me?"  
  
"I don't know." Arthur says, and he laughs at himself. "I have no idea. I want a lot of things for you. I want you to have had a normal childhood-a good one, I want you to have a group of friends, I want...I want you to be happy and healthy, and I can't do anything."  
  
"Well." Eames takes the pancakes. "I'm already fucked up and I already love you and we're already fucked up together, and I don't know what to do." Eames wants Arthur to tell him what to do. He needs Arthur to _tell him_ what to do, because he broke him and there needs to be a way to make it better. There...there has to be a way to make it better. He'll leave, he'll go, and he'll go to his room and it'll break his heart, but he'll go away and never come back if that would make it better. He'll wait until he's fucking _thirty_ if that would make this better. He'll never mention sex again, he will _do anything_ to make this better. "Tell me what to do."  
  
Arthur doesn't say anything, he looks like he doesn't have anything else in him, so Eames goes. Arthur loves Eames, and that'll be enough. Eames can be satisfied with that, because he loves Arthur and he's killing him and you don't do that. You don't do that to the only good thing in your life.  
  
Sammy follows him to the door and she's smiling and he can't...can't handle her right now. And he falls to his knees and presses his face against her shoulder. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I fucked up everything, I'm sorry. I know you don't understand."  
  
She doesn't understand, of course she doesn't, she's still smiling, and it hurts to let go, but he fumbles for her toys and he throws her ball around the corner so she won't see him go. He leaves his key on the table.

 

####  [Re: Rule Ten (Part 149)](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3743146#cmt3743146)

on 2011-03-01 01:26 am (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

Yesterday I had a Guest. I had a Guest over. It was very exciting. I cleaned.  
  
Arthur goes to the Cobbs for Sunday dinner. He brings Sammy, and she spend the entire ride whining, and he doesn't have it in him to tell her to be quiet, because he would spend the entire ride whining if he let himself.  
  
"We're a sorry pair, you and I." Arthur says.  
  
Sammy whines again and Arthur grips the wheel. "I'm not going to leave you there. He'll be back. Or we'll get him back. Or. Should we get him back?"  
  
Sammy is limp and curled up in her cage and Arthur swallows and grips the wheel a bit harder, rolls his wrists and looks at the road. "And even if he isn't...coming back then...we're in this together."  
  
There's silence and Arthur doesn't know what to do with silence anymore. It's like he's lost the knack for it. He'd gotten a job, he'd moved here, and he'd gotten a big empty house and he's sat in his big empty house, and he'd thrown parties and he'd invited the Cobbs over, and he'd had the TV running and the radio and his stereo system, and he hadn't even realized he'd been lonely.   
  
The key is still on the table. Arthur hasn't touched it, he eats breakfast and it sits right there. On his table. When it should be on Eames keyring, and Eames should be in his house, and not...but he needs his space and...Arthur doesn't...he should have...  
  
"What was I supposed to do?" He asks. "Your life is easy. You're spayed, you don't need to worry about this. But he's... He's not a dog. I can't just take him in and know for certain it's the right thing. I can't train him and feed him and...well here's where the metaphor breaks down." Arthur breathes out and they're at a red light and he rests his forehead against the wheel. He hasn't slept well, wondering where Eames is, what he's doing, if he's doing something dumb. If he's sleeping with someone just to get the taste of Arthur out of his mouth.   
  
"I shouldn't wish things were different. I know that. I shouldn't wish we hadn't met and that he had a better childhood, and that he was happy and well-adjusted and maybe, someday, we'd meet up and we could just fall in love and..." How long was this red light? Was it on strike, or something? Had it just decided to stay red forever? "But he's my kid and he's my sub and he's my friend and he's my... that's not healthy. Right?"  
  
Sammy looked at him in the rearview and Arthur took another breath. "You know how relationships become abusive? I mean, besides all the other things. But the abusive partner cuts off all of the other partner's support systems and then the abuser can just do whatever they want because there's no where for them to go. And even if neither partner means anything by it, even if I don't...I wouldn't hurt him. No on purpose. But in that kind of situation? It would happen. I guarantee it."  
  
Sammy snuffled in her carrier.   
  
"I mean, what am I supposed to do?" Arthur asks and they're finally moving. "I thought we were fine, and then he...and I just _snap_ and you can't afford to snap when it's like that. You have to be in control, and if I gave in there, where do I stop? When does Eames stop me?" And that's what bugs Arthur, not where does he end, but when does _Eames stop him_? Eames can stand up for himself, Arthur has seen it, had heard it, but it was a jerky, unsure thing and Arthur could steamroll right over that.  
  
"Do I go to him or would that be basically ordering him back? Do I wait for him, or...well then he feels like I don't give a shit and...fuck." Arthur parks and then stares out the windshield. "He's seventeen, I should... I should just. I should just tell him. I should just put this...we have feelings, and it's perfectly natural to have feelings, but we're both not in a place where we can act on them. But hat doesn't mean we can't be in each other's lives, does it?"  
  
He gets out of the car and walks a struggling Sammy to the door. She's doing the Great Eames Search and doesn't understand why he isn't right along with her, searching him out.

 

####  [Sammyfic (1/?): because it had to be written and I am procrastinating](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3757738#cmt3757738)

on 2011-03-01 09:33 am (UTC)

Posted by [**claudia-nic.livejournal.com**](http://claudia-nic.livejournal.com/)

Sammy likes her new humans, she really does.   
  
She likes Eames best,hands down, because he plays with her and takes her out for long walks and lets her sleep in his bed. The bed is big and soft and Eames is warm and he lets Sammy curl up against him really close.   
  
He even carries her up the stairs whenever she gets confused, because in Granny Maud's old house they never went upstairs anymore and she got used to that.  
  
But in this house there are stairs and she is supposed to use them, because that's what the humans do and if she wouldn't she couldn't sleep in Eames's bed.

 

####  [Re: Sammyfic (2/?): because it had to be written and I am procrastinating](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3757994#cmt3757994)

on 2011-03-01 09:57 am (UTC)

Posted by  [**claudia-nic.livejournal.com**](http://claudia-nic.livejournal.com/)

Arthur is alright as well, although he's not as great as Eames. Arthur has rules and Sammy thinks he likes them a bit too much. There are rules about when to eat and when to walk and when to leave Arthur alone because he ahs to work. He also doesn't let Sammy sleep in his bed, so the choice is easily made. Arthur's alright, but Eames is her number one human.  
  
Which is why she's sitting in front of the door, waiting for him to arrive. The funny thing about Eames is that he doesn't live in Sammy's new house. Sometimes he does though, but not all the time. Sammy thinks it's one of Arthur's rules, but she doesn't really care as long as Eames comes and stays every day.   
  
It took her a while to figure out when, but she's pretty sure shé's figured it out now. Eames comes in the morning for them to go on a walk and then he's back after Arthur has lunch but before he starts making dinner. Piece of cake!

_Edited on 2011-03-01 10:04 am (UTC)_

 

####  [Re: Sammyfic (3/?): because it had to be written and I am procrastinating](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3758762#cmt3758762)

on 2011-03-01 10:25 am (UTC)

Posted by  [**claudia-nic.livejournal.com**](http://claudia-nic.livejournal.com/)

Arthur sometimes comes to watch her when she lying in front of the door, to check if she's still there and sometimes he calls her a silly dog, but really, who's the silly human here?   
  
Because whenever Eames comes home, Sammy gets to give him kisses first and Eames will pet her and hug her and sometimes even play with her. And only after they have done all that, he'll go and say hi to Arthur, who's in the livingroom instead of in front of the door. If you ask her, he's defintely the silly one.  
  
She can usually hear Eames long before he opens the door, because she's a dog and can hear much better than humans, but also because Eames never even tends to sneak up at her. Arthur tells him to pick up his feet, Eames tells Sammy he'll walk the way he wants to, thank you very much.  
  
She likes it when they talk to her, even though she usually doesn't get half of what they say. Grammy Maud would tell her stories about grandchildren and bingo and going to the hairdressers and the doctors, so Sammy thought she knew lots about the weird things humans do when they go out of the house, but clearly she was wrong.  
  
Eames paints and he likes to tell Sammy about what he's drawing in class, although she has no idea what class is. Drawing however she gets, because Eames shows her things he calls pictures and they are just paper with things. Sometimes in black, sometimes with lots of colors. And sometimes Eames draws on the walls instead of on a paper, and he uses smelly wet stuff and Sammy is not allowed to come close, because apparently she won't look pretty if she's cover in blue. She happens to disagree, she very much like blue, whatever that is.

 

####  [Re: Rule Ten (Part 150)](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3746474#cmt3746474)

on 2011-03-01 02:53 am (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

It's not the 150 comment parts that I fear, it is the day I look back at 150 parts and don't remember what happened.  
  
"Or I should just...give up on being a decent human being and give him what he wants." Arthur stops on the sidewalk. "Let him lead and make his own poor choices, because that's part of growing up. He's going to hate me either way. And either way I'm going to end up making an impact on how he grows up. But I can't...I can't cut him off. I can't let him try and just...go back, because that's not healthy either."  
  
Arthur feels like throwing a tantrum. A full on Callie-like tantrum, right in the street. Kicking the garbage can over and ripping up the flower beds and _screaming_ to the sky about how life was so unfair. But instead he rings the doorbell and Ma answers.  
  
She stares for a deeply uncomfortable amount of time. "Your tie knot is askew. And your hair is... oh Arthur, poppet, you are a mess."  
  
"I'm fine."  
  
"You buttoned all the buttons of your suit. You're in emotional distress."  
  
Arthur goes in and lets Sammy off the leash. She begins investigating the house for Eames. Or bacon. Arthur hangs up his coat and lets Mal be theatrical, because she loves a chance to be theatrical, just like Maxwell loves a chance to fuss, and Cynthia loves a chance to advise, and Mom loves a chance to feed someone, and Dad loves a chance to clap someone on the shoulder and say "buck up" and Dom will love a chance to avoid the topic and then make a complicated metaphor about his model trains, or maybe the weather. Maybe these are all meant to comfort Arthur, but in the end this is how everyone would be regardless of who it was receiving the attention. There will always be another plate for Mom to plop another scoop of mashed potatoes on.  
  
And Arthur loves a chance to _fix_ things, doesn't he? To take someone and make them _better_ , because that's just who Arthur is. And Eames was better, wasn't he? Doing better in school, happy, not out every night taking ice cream scoops out of his brain.  
  
"What happened?" Mal asked. "It was Eames, wasn't it?"  
  
"How did you- Nevermind." Arthur shrugs. "It's not." Arthur wipes his mouth. "Seventeen. I feel like I say things and he just...like he takes everything the wrong way, and he just... He left his key and." Arthur exhales slowly.   
  
"He came over Thursday." Dom says, "Mal just wanted to seem mysterious and all-knowing and make fun of your habit of being neat as a pin."  
  
Arthur goes up the stairs a bit too hastily to keep his look of calm and Dom looks up from setting the table. "He's fine. By the way. Came here to pump us for information about you. Mal fed him and then he helped in the workshop until he was bored to tears."  
  
Arthur sits down where Mal puts him. "He's fine?"  
  
"As fine as a teenager can be with a broken heart." Mal sits across from him, all grace and whimsy even though she's wearing a sweater and jeans. She often bemoans that she used to wear gowns and sundresses before Dom's crude American hands ruined her forever. She does still wear heels, but Arthur suspects Frenchwomen are born in heels and so anything else would feel unnatural. Arthur didn't know any French stereotypes before he met Mal, but apparently they take their shoes and their love stories _extremely_ seriously. Or, well, Mal does. He would have to go to France to find out if anyone else does. Dom was too shell-shocked after going to France to comment.   
  
"What have you done to that young man? If you were in a civilized country you two would be eating a romantic dinner by candlelight before you took him in the light of a fire for two, and there would be none of this..." She waves her hands. "And when you fight you would have it out properly, with crying and screaming and throwing things and then it would all be out and clear and free."  
  
"Dom, first you take me to the country of _Wonder Bread_ , which, let me tell you, is neither wonderful _nor_ Bread, and then you present me with this. You are trying to kill me. This is a long assassination attempt. Two men in love and both singing the entirely wrong love song. Also I gave up smoking for you."

 

####  [Re: Rule Ten (Part 151)](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3749034#cmt3749034)

on 2011-03-01 03:13 am (UTC)

Posted by  [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

MOAR TOMORROW  
  
"You hated France." Dom says, in the tone of voice of someone whose used to such things, "You prefer pining for it than being there, so it can remain a romantic ideal instead of a place where we see far too many homeless men peeing on street corners."  
  
"This is your fault." Mal repeats and takes Arthur's hand. "Let me guess. You feel guilty because to you he seems a child and you don't want to take advantage?"  
  
"It's complicated." Arthur says.   
  
"And you are unsure of whether to guide him platonically, or ravish him romantically, and you wish to protect him from the world, but it is you, you think, that he needs the most protection from, yes?"  
  
"Mal, this isn't a story, he's in a...a tumultuous stage in his life. He needs someone to be there for him who won't use him."  
  
"Dom can do that. Dom, do you want to be a father figure for a misguided youth?"  
  
Dom looks struck a moment, then resigned.  
  
"He can put in the patio I want. You have all the plans, but he can do the lifting. And then the two of you can bond. You don't need to do this all by yourself."  
  
Arthur breathes out. "Mal-"  
  
"No, do not tell me it is not that simple. It will be that simple. I will make it that simple. Eames just needs other voices to counteract yours. And my voice is especially pushy. So you will go, you will apologize, and you will drag him here until he loves us, and you will explain why you are dragging him here, and he will make his own friends in order to balance us out, and then the two of you can stop giving me a headache."  
  
"And we'll get a patio," Dom adds and they sit down with food, Mal pours Arthur wine, even though he doesn't want any, and effectively makes it so he drinks, so he can't go home alone and maybe Mal's plan is a bit too focused on letting Arthur and Eames have this giant, romantic affair, and she's missing the complexities of the situation, but it's better than anything Arthur has come up with by himself.  
  
"What about you?" Arthur asks Dom, later, when Mal is cleaning up, because she insists on cleaning up, because Dom loads the dishwasher wrong and Arthur is a guest. "What do..."  
  
"I think you should wait." Dom says, bluntly. "18 may be an arbitrary age, but a clearly defined one. You'll both know he has options, then. And another year might give you two perspective."  
  
Arthur nods and looks down at his beer.   
  
"You can be romantic without sex, plenty of couples do. You can give him the acknowledgement and stability he wants, the clear definitions that _you_ want. Everything above board, everything clear, and defined. Then you won't feel so guilty."  
  
"I said it wasn't about his age." Arthur says, "And it's not. Mostly. If he was 21 and I was...God, almost 30, and like this, I would still wait."  
  
"But then he would be 21 and he would have more options than just waiting for you to make an equally arbitrary decision." Dom replies,. They both drink for a bit.  
  
Arthur thinks about being 21. You're no more responsible on your 21st birthday than you were the day before it, but on your 21st birthday, you're allowed to drink. The day before you still might drink, but you're dependent on someone old enough to get booze on _what_ you end up drinking. Then the next day, you can buy _whatever_ you want. You can get sampler packs and you can try whatever you want and gain preferences and suddenly your favorite beer is on the shopping list along with eggs and pickles, and it all means the same thing to you.  
  
It's arbitrary, but it's defined. There's no judgement call, one day you can't, and the next you can and it's as simple as that.  
  
"Does he know about your..." Dom clears his throat.  
  
"Yes." Arthur answers, picking at the label on his beer.  
  
"And he...?"  
  
"Says he can. Or wants to. I don't know if he really is submissive or if he's just going along with me, but. I mean, I think it's real. He. I don't know if it was subspace, or, well you don't know what that is. But he...Mal would call it _living in a thought too attractive to leave._ And it was the thought that I take care of me things and the he...um."  
  
"Right. So. If he were 18 you could take him to...places to. Explore. That." Dom clears his throat again and they're done talking, and instead sit and drink.

 

####  [Re: Rule Ten (Part 152)](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3762602#cmt3762602)

on 2011-03-02 12:23 am (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

Ariadne's party is exactly the sort of thing Eames needs at the moment. It's not at P House, but rather at some swanky place Eames assumes is off campus, but he isn't sure where campus begins and ends, seeing as the college is this sprawling monstrosity that sort of eats everything in its path.   
  
Which is sort of the reason Eames keeps getting by with people assuming he goes there, because it's so massive that no one even knows the people who are both in their year _and_ their department.   
  
"I hear there's going to be a rich dude coming." One or Ari's friend says, "You know, like, super multi-billionaire type of guy. He's a friend of Howard's or whatever form some swanky boarding type school."  
  
"Why's Howard here anyways? Shouldn't he be going to one of those big name places?" Someone else says while Eames stares out the window of the overly packed car. Not a free seat in the place, including laps. Eames has someone's feet in his, since Ari is driving and the only person he'd be comfortable using him as a chair in this mess.  
  
"Not like I know the guy," The first person replies a damn, Eames has been in too many cars where he had no idea who anyone was other than Ari. Sometimes he maybe-they're-dating-maybe-they're-fucking-it's-college-who-the-fuck-knows Chemistry Pal will be afoot, but she doesn't talk about him, and Eames was introduced to sixty people that night, some of them twice, so it's not like he caught any names.  
  
He needs this. He's been at home when he's not at school, one or two interviews that went...poorly, and then the one where they just wanted to hire _someone_ and it was back of house, so it's not like Eames tats and muscles can scare anyone back there. Dishwashing. Fabulous. He's right chuffed. But it pays ten whole cents about minimum wage, so it's the best he could hope for, and it's not like Eames can't wash fucking dishes, and it'll get him out of the house, and even though mum shot off for maturity leave, she's all with baby yoga and whatever to do much with Eames.  
  
He made her pancakes last Thursday and she's thrown up. It'd been a real bonding moment.  
  
And Prick had been all "oh so you're home." And Eames had bitten back that, oh, so Prick _did_ remember he existed, _marvelous_. And then he'd been in this house with these two people who treated him like furniture that didn't quite go with the over decour, and then, better, he'd been in this house with fucking _no one_.  
  
They'd probably put the baby in daycare all the time and Eames wouldn't see him at all either. But he was going to get his own flat, and they all could shove off. Arthur could shove off and they could shove off and he'd gone to the Cobb's but they hadn't had Sammy, so Arthur still had her, which was good, right? Good. They could keep each other company until Eames didn't make Arthur feel like a _monster_. What? 20? Would being 20 be enough? That should be enough. No teenage cock for Arthur, no sir.  
  
That was only...three...years.   
  
Fuck he needs to get drunk. Or high. Or something where thoughts are hard to put together, because all his thoughts suck. The party has liquor, of course it does, but somehow Eames ends up tucked in some corner that doesn't have a single solitary soul sucking face without some willing sod. he has to go to some corner of the _roof_ for it, but he's never been one to frown upon roofs. A mite chilly, sure, but he snatched up a bottle of schnaps and he intends to drain it's syrupy contents. Eames drinks and realizes he's pathetic. But he accepts that about himself. It's good to accept your flaws.  
  
"Can't even find space to breath in here," Someone says after a long stint of drinking more than he should and then just sort of sitting in the dark corner. "Oh sorry, didn't see you." The shadow says after a moment.  
  
"Don't worry about it. Only bit of quiet here, trust me." They're in the shadow on the split level and Eames lifts his bottle. "Fancy a drink? It's wretched."  
  
"I'm afraid I don't have a cup."  
  
Eames hands the shadow his. "I'm done for the mo. Any more and this roof will be tiled in sick."  
  
"Oh." The shadows says, and it's such a proper little _oh_ , like a shocked maiden or whatever and Eames laughs and punches somewhere around the shadows arm.

 

####  [Re: Rule Ten (Part 153)](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3763370#cmt3763370)

on 2011-03-02 01:00 am (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

"Don't get nervous about it, just a bit of English spit, won't kill you. Or you could drink out of the bottle." Eames relaxes against the brick of the wall and stares out at the shadowy stretch of gravel between this place and the main road.   
  
"Thank you." The shadow says and he drinks and Eames can _hear_ the face he makes and Eames laughs again.   
  
"That is ghastly."  
  
"Innit, though? Drink up, no sense going to a party and not getting pissed."  
  
"So, do you know Howard?"  
  
"Mate, if you could see me, you would not be taking me for posh." Eames gets more English the drunker he gets, and he can't get himself to care. Will start calling potatoes "mashers" any second now. "I'm just another bit of riff raff off the street. You, however, sound upper crust. Sure you should be drinking? Might ruin those refined taste buds you worked so hard for."  
  
"I do not sound upper crust," And the voice is just so _affronted_ by the idea, that Eames decides not to pick-pocket him. He wouldn't have cash-no one's got cash anymore except for drug dealers, waitstaff, high school students, and strippers-but Eames could pawn the wallet for a pretty penny, no doubt.  
  
"You _enunciate_ , like you've got a speech coach at some point, you've got cologne on-subtle, so you know how to apply it, and it's a scent that actually smells good, so it's fucking expensive, right? And durable, seeing as it lasted through the stink of down there. And your shoes sound like-" Arthur's shoes, but Eames isn't sure how to describe that, "-well, dress shoes, eh? Oh and the tail you've got waiting around the corner sort of gives youa way dead."  
  
"Damn it," The shadow swears softly.   
  
Don't worry, none. Drunkerds on a roof are the all the same."  
  
"Now you're going to tell me you're a Criminology major or something?"  
  
"Nah, don't even go here. Just needed to get out of the house. Drink up. I won't mug you. Bloody hell of thing to get you off the roof with your bodyguard right over there, wouldn't it be."  
  
They drink in silence for awhile, and normally Eames would be curious about what some posh bloke is doing up here, but he can't make himself give a shit. "You smoke?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Want to anyways?'  
  
Eames slips a new brand new fag between his lips, because he's been dying for one for an age, and he's got no one to impress now. Not for three years, anyways. Just mind himself for three fucking years, right? Time flies when you're up to your elbows in suds, after all.  
  
"...sure." The shadows says and Eames slip another fag into his mouth and lights them both, puffing until they're like two fireflies, and passes it over to Mr. Posh. He holds it and then inhales, and he does a good job of not coughing it up, and goes in for the second pull. Eames leans forward and hold out another to man around the corner, and the bloke takes one, and the lighter. Eames doesn't check to see what he looks like either. He doesn't give a shit.  
  
Eames doesn't look to see what he face looks like, illuminated by the dim glow of the fag end, and instead just stares out into the trees. His shadow doesn't say anything either, just smokes until the flame hits filter and mashes it out against the shingles.  
  
"I've never been to a party like this." The shadow says after awhile. "Is it always this...rambunctious?"  
  
"Yeah. I guess. More now, because it's a load of people who know a guy who know a guy. Usually it's a bit more close-knit." Eames breathes the scent of cologne and stale cigarette smoke, and the bonfire out back that he can hear and smell but not see. "More watching _Firefly_ and less walking in on six people fucking in a Jacuzzi, you know?"  
  
"I really don't."  
  
"All ballgowns and bowties for you, yeah? Bet you don't even know how to dance."  
  
"I know how to dance."  
  
"Ballroom, sure. Turn a mean waltz, but I mean _dance_." Eames makes a gesture that he doesn't know what means. He can feel the bassline of whatever dub-step is playing below them and the roof _shudders_ with the drop. "You know, loosen up and get in all mixed with a bunch of other warm bodies, elbows in your gut, bashing into strangers, up tight with someone you don't know."

 

 

 

####  [Re: Rule Ten (Part 154)](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3765162#cmt3765162)

on 2011-03-02 01:54 am (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

I'm not sure anything is actually going to happen tonight. As a warning.  
  
"Oh. Clubbing." The shadow says like it's a foreign term and Eames is giggling like an idiot tonight and it's better than being morose and walking to Arthur's house. That's half the reason he came to roof. Can't impulse walk when you're on a roof.  
  
"How old are you?" Eames asks.  
  
"Nineteen."  
  
"And you haven't ever been mashed in with a bunch of bodies you don't know just for the fuck of it? Shame. Those are the stories you tell your grandkids as cautionary tales. Or better, that you _don't_." Eames slips down the wall. "Go on. Get down there and jump in. No one will know you from Adam in that muck."  
  
"Trying to get rid of me?" The shadow asked and maybe. Maybe Eames was. Maybe he wasn't. He wasn't one to talk about life experience or whatever. He went to parties, yeah. Still had no idea why they were fun. It just seemed the thing to do.  
  
"Well, you're the first person who hasn't told me to get laid, tonight, so I think I'll stay here." The shadow pours himself another drink and Eames is loose limbed, even on the slant of the roof and he doesn't mind the company, he supposes. Even if the company comes with a goon and a gun.  
  
"Never get laid at parties, worse way to get your end off." Eames takes another swing of the tooth-achingly syrupy drink. "You're both always drunk off your heads, or high, or whatever, and you can't really relax and enjoy it, right? Since you're so busy trying not to be sick all over whoever, and the room is spinning, and you wake up with a headache and no idea where you or yours trousers are."  
  
"You really don't go to college here, do you?" The shadow says after a moment. And it's not like Eames advocates that you can only fuck your soulmate, or whatever, except, well, the entire idea of fucking another whose not Arthur just sounds like all effort and no gain, so why should he bother? Why should anyone bother?  
  
God, he's gotten jaded in his old age.  
  
"Want to go get pancakes?" Eames says.  
  
The shadow pauses a moment. "Pancakes?"  
  
"Flapjacks, silver dollars, you know, the fluffy, crispy, golden griddle cakes best with syrup. Hey, mate, you hungry?" Eames leans around the corner.   
  
"I...guess." The shadow says and Eames goes over to the tree and the shadow and his man follow.   
  
"You got a ride?" Eames says when they're down and he still can't see the shadow properly, but his man is bigger than Eames is, and better armed.   
  
"Yes." The shadows says, slowly, like he isn't sure what he's doing, and Eames figures if this guy is rich, he can buy, and Eames hasn't had anything not-previously-frozen for going on forever now, and he wants pancakes that aren't the sad pieces of shit he turns out.  
  
"Then we're going to go get fucking pancakes, and I'm going to use you for your money and make you buy."  
  
"At least you're honest." The shadow says as they head towards the street.

\---

  
  
They get a fucking hotel room. Like a honest-to-God hotel. Not a motel. Not an inn. Not a bed and breakfast. Eames has no idea why he tags along, except they spent two hours in some all night diner, Shadow getting pancakes and then looking at them like he has no idea what to do, Shadow's Man getting a Belgian waffle, and Eames getting a whole plate of silver dollars that he eats wrapped around sausage links and dipped in syrup. They have coffee, and Shadow makes a face and Eames laughs at him again, because the man is probably used to Italian pressed important beans made to perfection, not just-this-side-of-burnt mass produced coffee from Sam's Club, or where ever.  
  
But the hotel room is all class, and Eames probably should leave, but it's here or...not...here, and every place that is not here is miserable for one reason or another.  
  
"I'm not even supposed to be here." His Shadow says, looking out the window.   
  
"Imagine not," Eames relaxes into the leather recliner and stretches until his spine pops. "But you've got to stuff some teenage rebellion in before you go and get too old for it. If you don't you go mad. I've seen it on the news."

 

####  [Re: Rule Ten (Part 155)](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3767466#cmt3767466)

on 2011-03-02 03:20 am (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

His Shadow cracks a smile and he's wrapped up in his own drama and Eames figures he'll get kicked out in short order, politely, maybe, but he'll get booted out and then he'll have to figure out where the fuck he is. They might be in the city. Eames doesn't know. Shadow's car had had a telly, and a minibar and they;d gone right back to drinking, and sort of...leaning...on each other, because Eames was trained by Ariadne's friends or whatever.  
  
"You need me to go or-"  
  
"No." Shadow steps back. "No, I don't... You don't have to go if you don't want to."  
  
"I'm not great company." Eames says, because he's not. Knows that well enough and his Shadow just shrugs. He's dressed like he wasn't sure how to be casual and just put together something from a magazine. All designer shit, but the jeans are there, the hipster sweater vest, the thick-rimmed glasses. He's like a time traveler trying to fit in.   
  
"Better company than no company." his Shadow says and they sit, as he cracks open some imported beers from God Only Knows Where and flicks on the telly, like they're ready for the Big Game or whatever. "And if you go home, then I'm just going to end up going home, and then this whole thing was pointless."  
  
"Well argued." Eames says and thinks they could use some nachos, but he's not really properly hungry. "So. Hiding from anything in particular?"  
  
"No. Just...everything. In general." His Shadow says picking through what's on offer and Eames takes the remote, because he doesn't know what posh boys watch, and he doesn't want to know. "I'll go back tomorrow, I just needed a night off."  
  
"Vacation from yourself, right?"  
  
"I suppose." His shadow says, looking down at his beer and then takes a drink. "I'm hardly going to complain about how hard my life is, you don't want to hear it, I don't want to hear it. I'm sick of moping around, so I decided that I'd do something about it."  
  
"Run away?"  
  
His shadow glare sat him and Eames holds up a hand. "It's a tried and true method employed by your truely. I don't judge. It's not like everything I do comes up roses."  
  
"So how about we just...forget all of it." His Shadow says, "Just leave it at the door."  
  
"Fuck it all." Eames agrees. "Who needs it? Fuck everyone whose not currently in this room." His Shadow's bodyguard is still in the room and Eames wonders if he gets to sleep tonight. Eames doubts it. "Fuck people, fuck parties, fuck fucking, fuck sleep."  
  
"Alcohol we can keep." His Shadow says after awhile.  
  
"And drunken cuddling while watching pulp science fiction television from the early 90's."  
  
His Shadow looks at him and Eames kicks off his shoes and clamber into the bed. "Get over here."  
  
"What?"  
  
"I won't despoil your maidenly virtue, or whatever. Just get over here. You're drunk, I'm drunk, fuck everything this bed is marvelous." Eames sinks into it. It smells like expensive detergent and fabric softener, and maybe a bit like bleach, but it's softer than goddamn kittens. "You see birds getting handsy all over the second they have a bit, don't see why blokes need to be different. Or would that spoil your delicate sensibilities?"  
  
His Shadow looks a bit shocked and confused, but then he steels himself. "I do not have _delicate_ anything."  
  
"Comfortable in your masculinity. Then come here and cuddle me, bitch. No fun being drunk, otherwise. Just some sad bloke in a bar telling your sob story to the bartender while he waits for you to go home."  
  
His Shadow gingerly sits next to him and Eames grabs him and hauls him off balance and he goes through the channels, until he find something exploding in space. "Here we are, utter tripe."  
  
"You're a strange man Drunken But Observant English Fellow I Found On The Roof."  
  
"And you're uptight like a shoved a broom up your arse Shadowy Posh Man Who Smells Like Money Who Hasn't Danced."  
  
"And you have forbidden us exchange names, correct?"  
  
"On the nose." Eames leans back into the plumped and plush pillows and nods to the phone. "Order us some nachos, and in exchange I'll teach you to cuddle properly."  
  
"What if I don't want to learn to cuddle properly."  
  
"Than you'll go through life a shell of a man." Eames said, "and you won't have any nachos. No olive, but plenty of re-fried beans, yeah? There's a good man."

 

####  [Re: Rule Ten (Part 156)](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3767722#cmt3767722)

on 2011-03-02 03:25 am (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

More Tomorrow?  
  
Better here than sobbing drunkenly outside Arthur's door until he takes pity on him and let's him in, right? Or calling him. Or...it's not like the broke up. Eames left because he needed to leave. He fucked up Arthur. When you fuck up Arthur, you should just give up, because that basically means you break everything you touch.  
  
"If I wanted to be cuddling a cement poll I could be doing that." Eames says when they get the nachos. "I'm not going to shank you or touch you or anything. Just...go with it."  
  
"I haven't done this before."  
  
"What, not even after a shag? Christ, Okay, give me your arm." He tucks it around behind him, and then tugs his Shadow closer and holds on until the guy can either snap from the tension or calm the fuck down. After a moment he slowly sort of settles down. "I'm not seducing you for your money, so just breathe or whatever, okay? I've got enough trouble as is."  
  
"Good to know." His Shadow says and they drink beer and eat nachos and continue to not have a single fucking clue what they're watching.  
  
"So." Eames says after another few beers and it's six AM, and they haven't slept yet, and maybe they won't, but they've got the blackout curtains drawn, so whatever. "Male authority figures."  
  
"Fuck them." His Shadow says, emphatically, and he's loose and relaxed next to him, and Eames had them both drink water until they were peeing every quarter hour, because he's not dealing with a hang-over too.  
  
"What do that know?"  
  
"Nothing." Is mumbled into his neck. "They just demand and expect and what do you get? Nothing."  
  
"And they never tell you want they want. You're just supposed to _know_ , and when you don't? Well fuck everything in a bonnet, because you _should_ have done."  
  
"And you want just one thing, one _tiny_ thing for yourself, but of course you're not responsible enough-"  
  
"Not old enough-"  
  
"Not _perfect_ enough for it." His Shadow says and Eames jostles his bottle against the other man's. "And you've proven yourself at every turn."  
  
"Maybe made some perfectly human mistakes along the way." Eames says, because he's on a roll now, and...okay, fine, yeah, he'd been dumb, but he was _seventeen_ right? He did dumb things and Arthur...Arthur shouldn't get...Arthur should be understanding about them, right? He should...he's not Eames fucking _father figure_ or whatever. Eames wants to _fuck him_ , and he wants Arthur to give him rules because they're hot. Not because Eames needs them, or whatever.  
  
"But you've pushed yourself,"  
  
"And bent yourself backwards."  
  
"And what do you get out of it?"  
  
"Fuck all." Eames says and then they sit there. The bodygaurd went to his room an hour ago, and maybe Shadow has a panic button or whatever, but they're alone, and it's early and Eames isn't sure if he's mad, or depressed, or scared, or what's going on anymore.   
  
"I've never fucked a guy before. Not that I'm implying anything about you or our current situation, but I haven't _entirely_ because he wouldn't approve. And he would notice. he notices everything I do wrong, and doesn't say a word about anything I do right."  
  
Eames watches him and turns to wrap his other arm over his stomach, and they just sort of lie there, the room tilting and the bed soft.  
  
"You want to shag a bloke?" Eames asks into the guy's shirt, because it's a good shirt. It smells good. Eames likes people who smell good.  
  
"Maybe. I haven't slept with anyone, really." His Shadow says, "I've been busy and everyone is always..."  
  
"After your money?"  
  
"I realize how privileged I sound." His Shadow says.  
  
"If you're hot people want to fuck you because you're hot, if your famous, people want to fuck you because you're famous. if you're rich, people want to fuck you because you're rich." Eames shrugs. "Here, if we fucked, I _already_ used you for your wallet, so it doesn't matter anymore, right?"  
  
"You used me to get pancakes." His Shadow says, flopping an arm over Eames' back. "And nachos."  
  
"Well it isn't like I want a car, or anything. I don't know you're name, you don't know my name, tomorrow we'll fuck off in our own directions, and we'll be shagging to get back at other people and because we're available. Using each other all around."

 

####  [Re: Rule Ten (Part 157)](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3781034#cmt3781034)

on 2011-03-02 09:30 pm (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

  
  
"How about, we wait until we sober and _then_ we take care of that, huh?" Eames says, and his Shadow mumbles into his shoulder, all dark hair and loose limbs, and Eames sort of feels better. Not good, exactly, no where _near_ happy as he is with Arthur, but like...he's doing something good, here, instead of just faffing about like a tosser and moping all the time. He taught some posh bloke how to cuddle. That's a public service right? Now he won't use his trust fund to be a wanker because no one showed him affection when he was growing up, or whatever. Nevermind that he's older than Eames, that's secondary.  
  
He has to help Mal with her patio tomorrow. Tonight. Whatever. He wonders if posh boy knows anything about home additions.

\--

  
  
Mal opens the door and she's put together like a magazine model, or like one of those mannequins at the mall. The good kind, not the weird headless kind. She's holding a glass of lemonade and hands it to Eames as he and his Shadow stand there.  
  
"Oh, your brought a friend. Very clever, Dom can't even do a bit of heavy lifting, not that there will be much of that today, all planning and staking things out and things I don't care about. But we will soon have a lovely little place with netting to keep out the bugs and a grill and hardwood furniture and it looks right out over the flower beds. Oh, by the way, you'll be doing the flower beds."  
  
"Of course." Eames says, "Uh, Mal, this is a posh bloke I found on a roof. Posh bloke on the roof, this is a fabulous Frenchwoman who is going to make us make a patio."  
  
Mal looks at his Shadow a moment, head cocked and she smiles to herself, then holds out her hand. "Madam Mallorie Cobb, but you may call me Mal. And I'm sure there is an equally good nickname for Posh Bloke Eames found on a roof, hmm?"  
  
"Robert." He says, slowly, taking her hand and kissing her knuckles and she smiles and pats his cheek.   
  
"Let's get you some lemonade, and then into some of Dom's clothing so you boys can get filthy and make me a gorgeous patio." She sweeps up the stairs and Robert looks at Eames and Eames shrugs.   
  
"Well, one name each isn't going to hurt anything." Eames says, "You ever built anything before?"  
  
"No." Robert says, as they go in. "Not even a birdhouse."  
  
"Well, Dom's the man with the plan, we just so as we're told. Lot of lifting, mostly. You any good for lifting?'  
  
"No?" Robert says, "I swim, mostly. You lift though, right?"  
  
Eames flexes and Robert snorts and Mal comes down with another glass of lemonade and hands it to Robert. "Dom is out back with string and posts and whatever else, Robert you come with me, it would be tragic to ruin clothing that costs more than my car, yes? Of course it would. Come along, no, no, not a fuss, I want my patio before June and _two_ strapping young men work so much better than just the one."  
  
"Oui, Madam, merci."   
  
"Oh your accent is lovely, darling, very provincial, not like my Dom. I try and teach him French and he just limps through the words like I shot him in the foot. But it so precious when they try, non? You keep speaking French to me."  
  
"D'accord." Robert says and they're upstairs. Eames drinks his lemonade and goes around back, where Dom is sitting at a card table and looking over a blueprint. He's got supplies next to him and he looks a bit startled as Eames sits down next to him.  
  
"There you are. Uh. Well. We need to measure out the...uh, here's what it's going to look like. It's going to be enclosed, due to the weather, and we'll put up netting to stop mosquitoes, and, well, Mal wants us to put in a wood burning stove over here, and the barbeque grill would go here, and Mal wants hardwood tiles, and, um." Dom bites his pen and stares out over the yard. "And the flower beds should go there, and there. Mal is picking out what. Do you know anything about flowers?"

 

####  [Re: Rule Ten (Part 158)](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3786410#cmt3786410)

on 2011-03-03 01:03 am (UTC)

Posted by  [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

I have no idea how to build a patio. Or anything. Really.  
  
"Arthur-" Eames starts and stops all in one word, and looks down at his feet. "No. I don't."  
  
Dom doesn't say anything, and looks at him, then away again and Dom hands him a tape measure and some stakes. "Here's the measurements, and then you can tie them with string and Mal why is that boy wearing my clothing?"  
  
"He is Eames friend and he speaks French, and is preciously polite and I shall keep him and feed him biscuits." She kisses his cheek. "I want to have six of him and keep them in a little box and they can all speak French to me."  
  
"Madam Cobb, vous etes trop gentille." He's flushing and Mal kisses his cheek again before sitting in Dom's lap and looking down at the plans. "I want lilac bushes, right along there, and an apple tree. I want an apple tree right," She points on the map of their backyard. "No more poplar trees and hosta, everyone here has poplar trees and hosta, I can't handle another leaf of hosta. I will die, I swear it. We will have lilacs and apple trees and crawling ivy and two beautiful boys who will do all the work."  
  
Robert just looks sort of uncomfortable and Eames hands him the measuring tape "We're doing 25 by 18 for this, coming right out the door, so we need to not go down the hill and to center it on the door. So foot 12 and six inches needs to be right about here." He marks the place in the step with chalk and they measure out twenty five feet and they inch around until it hits right on the dot. Robert pushes his stake into the ground and Eames follows suit, and from there it's just measuring another 18 feet and stabbing those in.  
  
From there it's tearing up sod and that's sweaty, dirty work, and Eames loves sweaty dirty work. Sweaty dirty work means that you can look and see what you've done so far. Eames likes art, too, not that what he does it art, exactly. Doodling, he likes, because there's no pressure of "doing it right", but you're also never really done. With sweaty, dirty work, you can _feel_ how much you've completed. Robert is smiling at their patch of dirt and Eames flings an arm over his shoulders as they drink more lemonade.   
  
"What now?"  
  
"We dig. Probably. There's always digging." Eames lies down on the grass. The Cobbs have one of those giant back gardens you see on the telly and think _no one has a garden that big_ and _what do you even do with a garden that big_ but they do and apparently Mal had decided they were going to have a magazine spread for something you page through at the Doctor's office.  
  
"I've never had a day like this." Robert says.   
  
"You like it?" Eames asks, and the clouds are fluffy and the sky is one of those blues people write stories about, and it smells like grass, and today is almost very nearly an okay day. Except part of him is convinced Arthur is going to come in and he doesn't known what he'd do then. And it'd be terrible because are they? Did they break up? Or. Eames throws an arm over his eyes and he smells like dirt and sweat and Arthur wouldn't hug him like this anyways.  
  
Fuck, he's pathetic.  
  
"Yeah." Robert says, like he's tasting the idea. "I was going to go back today."  
  
"You gonna?"  
  
Robert is silent and Eames listens to the sound of Phillipa and James playing inside, and Mal singing to herself as she makes them lunch and Dom doesn't really make noises, but you can just sort of sense his rumpled scholarlyness when he's nearby.  
  
"I should," Robert inhales like he's savoring it and then he turns to Eames. "I hate to impose, but if I were to stay another day..."  
  
"You can buy me dinner and it's anyone's ballgame."

 

####  [Re: Rule Ten (Part 159)](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3789226#cmt3789226)

on 2011-03-03 02:54 am (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

Moar Tommara  
  
Robert smiles and sits up when Mal comes out with a tray of sandwiches and crisps and pickles. "There you go. Three each, I don't know if you eat like Eames does, Robert, but if you don't he will devour the rest of it too." She leaves them with the lunch, and the bread is thick and crusty, and everything tastes fresh, like she just sliced the ham, and the lettuce is crunchy and the tomatoes are sweet and there's the spinach dip-spread-stuff. He looks over and Robert is like... _daintily_ going after his.  
  
"No, no, that's not how you eat a sandwich." Eames swallows. "Sandwiches are visceral. You just have to go in there and eat the fuck out of it."  
  
Robert glances at him and takes a slightly larger bite and Eames shoves the sandwich at him and Robert flails and takes an snarfing bite and then pauses, cheeks full and Eames drinks his ginger ale and smiles as Robert chews and then takes another, equally giant bite just to show Eames who's boss.  
  
"Mal likes you, and you're helping with this, and from the way the Cobbs go this is basically going to be my summer job, so the longer you stay the more help I get."  
  
"What, I don't get paid?"  
  
"You get paid in sandwiches."  
  
"Truly an excellent business model," Robert said very seriously and for a moment he looks a bit like Arthur, and Eames turns away before he does something stupid and eats his pickle.

\---

  
  
They get another hotel room. Eames takes a fucking hour in the shower because shower is ridiculous. It has all these jets from everywhere and programmable water temperature and fuck knew what else and probably and masseuse hidden in there somewhere.  
  
He closes his eyes and just stands there. Robert will be gone, maybe tomorrow, maybe a week from now, but he'll be gone and Eames will never see him again. There's none of the addicting, necessary pull of being with Arthur, where every single moment Eames feels like his hands will just fucking fall off if he doesn't touch Arthur.  
  
Its not so much that Eames wants to sleep with Robert, or sleep with anyone, really. He just wants to stop being in a state of not-fucking Arthur. It'll be something besides the part of Eames brain that's just going _Arthur, Arthur, Arthur, Arthur_ like he doesn't know any other words.  
  
He spent the first day in his room just laying in bed, in the dark, until he was starving and then he'd rolled over and gone to sleep. He let himself do that for one day, just one stupid day of feeling sorry for himself, because every 17 year old wants to hear that they make the man they love feel like a monster.  
  
He knows it's sketchy, he _knows_ , but that shouldn't matter, because he's not a child and Arthur's not a molester and no one else needs to know. Eames is growing up as fast as he knows how, but is that enough for Arthur? God, no. Fuck what _Eames_ thinks. he's just a dumb, greedy pet project.  
  
Eames shouldn't have pushed. It was just one stupid impulse and now he had to wait, and Arthur would meet someone and Eames would have to hear about it.  
  
But Robert would have him. Probably. Eames wasn't not good enough for _him_. He'd be forgotten in a week, or whatever, but at least Robert would look at him and not be _disgusted_ by his existence.   
  
Eames just wanted to know what he'd done so wrong. It couldn't have just been that moment. It couldn't have.  
  
Instead Arthur had held him there. He'd rested his forehead against Eames back. He'd wrapped his hand over Eames' eyes. It had been good. Not what Eames wanted, but _better_ , because it was Arthur controlling the situation, Arthur acting on Eames and that's all he'd ever wanted.  
  
And Eames had turned around to see Arthur look at him like something terrible. Eames had just thought they could have had just a moment for them.   
  
He'd gone to his room and he hadn't jerked off, even though he knew Arthur wouldn't thank him or praise him, but he'd _done_ it. He just wanted a little bit. Just a taste. He'd been a greedy, stupid fuck, but he'd thought Arthur would tell him no. He'd...he'd honestly thought Arthur would tell him no, all gentle and understanding and everything would have gone back to normal.  
  
Now he had nothing at all.

 

 

 

####  [Re: Rule Ten (Part 160)](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3802282#cmt3802282)

on 2011-03-05 12:06 am (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

Sorry for the complete lack of updates yesterday. It was a weird day. I'm fine. It was just a really weird day. I would have told you there were going to be no updates. But it was a really weird day.  
  
Eames comes out the shower and Robert looks up from where he's reading the newspaper-like actually _reading_ the whole fucking thing, not just like bits and pieces of it. Eames pads over in his pants, because his clothing is still getting washed, and he didn't know hotels did your personal laundry, but Eames had never been in better than one of those extended stay places, and they were shit.  
  
"Hey." Eames said, flopping into the bed. "What's for dinner?"  
  
"Pizza," Robert says, like he's fucking delighted by it and Eames doesn't say that he's basically been eating fucking pizza for a month and half solid, because the poor sod's life has probably been like...eating snails, and shark fin soup, and like...those little bitty finger food you see in fancy funerals on TV, or whatever, and so he should get to have his deliciously cheesy Rebellion Pizza.  
  
"So, how long you planning on kicking around? I ask, of course, to see when I need to trick some other punter into doing most of the work while I steal their crisps."  
  
Robert pauses. "Probably not much longer. I have class on Monday."  
  
Robert had taken a shower at the Cobbs changing into his previous clothing that Dom and James had washed and ironed while they worked. Eames isn't sure what James did in the process, but he was very insistent that he'd helped and Eames had spun him around like Superman in reward. Probably pressed the start button or held the detergent cup. That's how Eames was going to get his kid brother used to housework. He could push all the damn buttons.  
  
"So, what, got another day of youthful indiscretion and indentured servitude before it's back to Mr. Straight and Narrow Academic."  
  
Robert drops his hands into his lap and bend his head. "I suppose so."  
  
"Anything you want to be doing in particular?" Eames asks, tucking his heads under the squishy pillow and stretches, heated up from the shower, and intending to air dry, though the towels had been warm and soft and he's thought about stealing one, because he realized he didn't have any luggage to sneak it away in. And he thought robe made you look like a tosser, so why bother?  
  
Robert turned to look at him. "My main goal here is to not think about Monday."  
  
And yeah, that the point right? They're in this hotel room to not think about things. Robert doesn't want to deal with...whatever, and Eames doesn't want to deal with every single one of this thoughts turning back to Arthur like his brain is a house of fucking mirrors in a cartoon. Like when the villain runs in and hero is in every single frame and you punch until glass is everywhere and you still don't lay a finger on the real problem.  
  
"What about you?" Robert asks.  
  
Eames closes his eyes and moment, and Robert is maybe what Arthur was like when he was young, he's got a sort of intensity about him, not the same kind, not nearly. He doesn't leave Eames with the same sort of...tornado in a stadium kind of wrecked feeling. More like a thunderstorm in a bathtub, and Eames doesn't want to show Robert his neck or anything, but he can pretend, a little, that Arthur and he found each other on the roof of a party, and Arthur was 19 and not yet himself, and...fuck, he doesn't know. He just wants to _stop thinking_ about Arthur for _ten fucking minutes_.  
  
"Want to not be me for a weekend." Eames says, "Or a night. Or at all."  
  
Robert nods and they're hip to hip, even on the giant bed, they just sort of sank to the middle and Eames buries his face back into the pillow and breathes.  
  
Robert folds the paper up and puts it on a chair, before lying down next to him and slowly stretching out, like he doesn't know what to do. Eames doesn't either, but this is what Arthur would want, right? For Eames to fuck around and experiment and-

 

 

 

####  [Re: Rule Ten (Part 161)](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3804586#cmt3804586)

on 2011-03-05 02:05 am (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

Headache. More Tomorrow  
  
Fuck Arthur. Fuck everything, but mostly? Fuck Arthur. He doesn't want Eames anyways. Loves him, sure. Awesome. And Eames mum loves him and doesn't want him and forgets about him, so now Arthur can love him and not want him and forget about him. Or Arthur wants him and that's a bad thing, because Eames is, apparently a fucking _horrible_ thing to want. If you want Eames you must be fucking demented somehow and have mental breakdowns in your room, because Eames? Too broken for any sane person to want to touch. Fuck Arthur.  
  
Eames turns his head. Robert opens his eyes at the sound.  
  
Eames pulls him in until they're tangled on the bed. "Want to make a fort?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"We should make a fort." Eames nudges his shoulder. "Get on the magic Stuff Giving Phone and order more sheets and pillows."  
  
"We do we need a fort?"  
  
"We need a fort because I say we need a fort. We're building a fort against invaders. We need to protect our homeland. For the people who would invade us."  
  
"You're...peculiar, has anyone told you that?"  
  
Eames picks up the phone and gives it to Robert, whose half under him now and Robert has no dignified choice but to order them more sheets and pillows and Eames acts like Sammy when she's under the impression she's a lapdog, and fuck, fuck he misses his dog.  
  
The pizza comes around the same time as the sheets and pillows, so Eames makes the fort while Robert eats. When he gets his kid brother-who will be the only good thing about the next three years-they're going to make so many goddamn forts, he and his kid brother are going to protect themselves from _everything_.  
  
It's a pillow fort and there's no room to move once you're inside, and it's too warm, but Eames is good with fort ventilation, so it doesn't get stuffy.  
  
"If we had sex I'd only be doing it to get back at...someone." Robert says, because he's a decent human being, and Eames wonders how the world is going to fuck that up.  
  
"Same." Eames says, "So we can either shag and accept that fact that we're not actually fucking each other, or we can not and...not."  
  
Robert considers this, and their fort is dark and quiet and basically the most perfect fort ever and Eames doesn't care if they're 17 and 19 respectively, they can just drop ten years each and stay in here and hide from everything.   
  
"We can do what we want. We're never going to see each other again, so let's just...do whatever the fuck we feel like and not because some fucking dick on the outside would want us to or would not want us to, yeah?"  
  
"Well argued," Robert says and Eames closes his eyes, because he wants to stop thinking about Arthur, he wants it so badly his chest feels caved in and aching and hollowed out like one of those autopsy photos they show in Health so you don't do drugs, or drive drunk, or whatever object lesson it was that day, and he can't. He just. He needs a different taste in his mouth other than all this damn wanting, and he needs to have had something else, anything else, other than feeling _this_.  
  
"So, you want to snog until we can't anymore?" Eames asks and they're close, basically on top of each other, and Robert stripped down, and Eames doesn't know if his dick is just dead, or what, but this isn't doing anything for him, and dicks are stupid, because they're hard when you don't want them to be and then you might be able to do something and they just lie there.  
  
Robert thinks and then tilts his head until their mouths are brushing together and Eames can see his eyes glimmer in the dark. "I've never just necked for necking sake."  
  
"Well. You've missed out on a world of dick chafing and delicious pent up sexual frustration."  
  
"Fun," Robert says and kissing him is basically the opposite of kissing Arthur. here's none of that need, none of the knowledge that it will end soon and there's nothing he can do about it, nothing _precious_ about it, but on the other hand it's simple. It's easy. It doesn't fucking matter how good he is, right now, because Robert doesn't give a shit. Robert's going to leave by Monday and Eames will never hear form him again, and he'll forget about him soon enough.  
  
Arthur is always going to be in his head.

 

####  [Re: Rule Ten (Part 162)](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3810986#cmt3810986)

on 2011-03-06 02:44 am (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

Where the fuck did today go? Seriously? It was this morning _five seconds ago_  
  
Sammy was whining at the door. It was late, but it's been late before. Arthur's taken her for walks at 3 am, before. They're bad at sleeping, the two of them. He stays up and works. She stays up and watches him work, head on his knee. They stay up, together, and he makes coffee and she sits and chews on her rawbone.  
  
He gets up. He attaches the lead to her collar. He opens the door. They go for a walk around the neighborhood. There are only streetlamps and dark bushes and not a single light on. Dogs bark. Dogs always bark. Sammy struggles against the lead, wanting to go down strange streets, and Arthur doesn't let her.  
  
They get back. Arthur takes off the lead and she sits down right there, and looks up at him.  
  
Arthur looks down at her and then they go back into the living room, and Arthur picks up his coffee and Sammy goes to her rawbone and they sit.

\---

  
  
"He's working today. You will come over today. You will talk today."  
  
"He needs time, Mal." Arthur says.  
  
"And he has had time. All he has is time. Time and time and time, and someday he will be old and you will be old and you will have no more time, and no love at all and I will have a patio, but not my patio. My patio has me and Dom on the porch swing and you and Eames on the day couch, and my babies being happy and running around, and married, someday, and you will not ruin my patio, Arthur. No one will ruin my patio."   
  
Arthur stares down at his paperwork. "He needs to be his own person."  
  
"Own person. Like he's not one right now. What is he right now? Hmm? A bird, perhaps?"  
  
"Mal, you know what I mean," Arthur sighs. "This is complicated-"  
  
"Yes, because you make it so. You are in love, he is in love. Everything else falls from that. Work, yes of course, of course love needs work, but it also needs acceptance, space to grow, not swatted down like a fly every time it tries to fly. You see?"  
  
"If I come by will you stop making metaphors?" Arthur rubs his forehead. He has a headache that could kill a man. Caffeine, high stress, no sleep. That would do it.  
  
"Of course." Mal promises, easily. "But you will come over, and you will make that boy stop being so sad."  
  
"He's...sad?"  
  
"Of course he's sad. What else would he be. Not moping, no, no, nothing so ungracious, but his eyes, Arthur. He is a hundred years older, and he works, he works and he has a job. He works here, and he works there."  
  
"He has a job?"  
  
"Yes. Something beneath him." Mal dismisses. "But he works. He works there, he works here, he does schoolwork. Sometimes. I think." Mal pauses. "You need to come over and fix my patio. At least let Eames see his dog."  
  
Arthur sighs. "I'll be over soon."

 

 

 

####  [Re: Rule Ten (Part 163)](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3813546#cmt3813546)

on 2011-03-06 04:13 am (UTC)

Posted by  [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

More Tomorrow  
  
Robert and Eames are wrestling, because Robert stole Eames' pickle and Eames had to wreck his vengeance.. All should quiver and despair. Robert was a sucky fight and Eames had him trapped in his arms when Eames was tackled from the left by a furry mass of happy, wiggling barking. Eames lets Robert go and turns to open his arms to Sammy, brain not even engaging long enough to think of how Sammy is here, just that she is and she's licking his face and writhing on top of him like a mad thing. "Where did you come from, huh?"  
  
Sammy pants terrible breath right into his face and he rolls them up and does a wee doggy dance with her and there's Arthur. Right there. Standing on the back step and all the saliva dries up, right out of his mouth and his clutches Sammy closer. She breathes in his ear, and that's good. That's not just his heart-pounding, then.  
  
It's ridiculous. Eames is just standing here and Arthur is just standing there and they should move, right? One of them should move. Eames puts Sammy down and holds out a hand to help Robert up. Arthur moves, picks around the unfinished patio and then stops again.  
  
Arthur double takes when he looks at Robert and starts: "You're-"  
  
"And you-" Robert begins.  
  
And then they both stop. Then they both look at Eames.  
  
"Eames-" They begin and then Robert glares at Arthur and Arthur straightens and glares back. Eames has no idea what's going on, like he missed an entire chapter somewhere.   
  
"Do you two...know each other?" He tries. Which would be his bloody luck. Robert isn't Arthur's type, too young to boot, and Robert said he hadn't...was he Arthur's project before Eames? No, Robert's bloody loaded, so he didn't need keeping, did he?  
  
"He's the son of-"  
  
"He knows my father." Robert cuts in.  
  
"What the fuck is going on?" Eames tries, hoping that'll turn up something...useful.  
  
"Are you dating him?" Arthur asks, but not Eames. He doesn't ask Eames. He asks fucking _Robert_.  
  
"I fail to see what it would matter if we were." Robert says, "But no. Eames and I are friends."  
  
"If you hurt-"  
  
"I'm not my father." Robert says and Eames is only letting them fight over him in the desperate hope that one of them will drop something that will explain what's going on. Long lost brothers? Oh God, are they? Are they long lost brothers? Does that happen in life? Is Robert a robot? No, Arthur would be the robot.  
  
"Your _father_ is a pompous ass who doesn't deserve-"  
  
"You do not get to speak about him-"  
  
"If someone does not explain what's going on, you're both going into the cement, alright?"  
  
They shut up and Arthur breathes a moment. "Robert Fischer is the son of my company's biggest competitors Fischer-Morrow. His father, Maurice Fischer, is an unbearable." Arthur stops and looks at Robert. "Your father isn't very accepting of everyone's life choices."  
  
"I am aware." Robert says. "I am not him, I was just here to go to a party with one of my friends from school, and I met Eames on a roof. I'm not here to... I don't know what you think I was doing, exactly."  
  
Arthur pulls back and rubs his eyes. "I'm sorry. I just... I apologize. You two have fun, I just need a lie down." He doesn't even look at Eames when he retreats into the house.  
  
"How on earth do you know Saito's Hunting Dog?"   
  
"Who?"  
  
"Saito? The head of Proclus Global? One of the most powerful businessmen on _earth_?"  
  
Eames has no idea what he's talking about. "Mate, that's just...Arthur. He. We're. I knew he was in business for something, but...Hunting?'  
  
"No, it's just. That's what my father calls him. When Saito wants something taken down, he sends the Hu..." Robert bows his head. "Saito sends _him_ to take care of it. I was just. Shaken, to see him here. How do you know him?"  
  
"My mum works for the company. Or one of the branches, I guess. There was a party."  
  
"Did you meet him on the roof?' Robert asks and Eames punches him in the arm.   
  
"No. Just. In a corner, actually. And it's complicated."  
  
Robert nods. "I should probably suspect you were seducing me to try and upset the company, or for corporate espionage, or any number of things."  
  
"But?"  
  
Robert looks at him and then leans in, "I know what jealousy looks like."

 

####  [Re: Rule Ten (Part 164)](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3826602#cmt3826602)

on 2011-03-06 10:18 pm (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

I should start a new thread soon. Should I start a new thread soon? HELP ME MAKE CHOICES.  
  
Eames leaves Robert and Dom to talk. Robert is trying to convince Dom to start his own architecture firm, or something, because Dom is in this big huge soul-sucking corporate job or something and Eames had stopped tracking what was going on when they started in on the economic climate because he was just the dishwashing bloke down on 3rd.  
  
Mal looks up from cutting cucumbers as he comes in. Arthur is standing with his back to the door, putting slices of bread on a cookie tray to toast. "Arthur your clever plan to hide in the kitchen appears to have been foiled."  
  
"I'm not hiding." Arthur says and turns.  
  
"You sort of are." Eames says and Arthur puts down his butter knife and puts his hands on counter.   
  
Arthur nods and bows his head. "Mal is there somewhere Eames and I can talk?"  
  
Mal looks at Eames and Eames rubs his arm and looks at the living room. "Come along then, no use scaring James. He's still not over the tornado warning signal test from earlier, brought everything downstairs and is hiding out in his closet, poor darling."  
  
"Shouldn't you tell him its over?" Arthur asks.  
  
"What? No, he's been entertaining himself for over a quarter of an hour. He has done this since he was a cute, rosy cheeked little embryo. I can hear myself think, it's wonderful. There are entire seconds where I don't hear the Sesame Street theme song in my head." She sighs, and leads them to the upstairs bedroom and gestures for them to come in. Arthur looks at Eames and Eames looks back.  
  
Mal shoves them both inside and closes the door followed by a clicking noise.  
  
"Mal." Arthur says, "Mal the lock is on this side of the door."  
  
"Pennies, Arthur. You two aren't leaving until I either hear inappropriate noises or the two of you have worked out your differences. My suggestion? Listen to what the other actually means, not what you think they mean."  
  
Arthur tries the door and it stays stuck. Arthur sighs. "You're a little psychotic, Mal."  
  
"That's why you like me, hurry on, or you'll miss lunch, hmm? There are my good boys." The creaky floorboard gives a little under her and she goes down the steps. Eames stares as Arthur tries the door again, and then drops his hand.  
  
Eames sits in the desk chair next to the PC and picks through the papers and books on the desk.   
  
Arthur sits on the edge of the bed, looking at the door. "How have you been?" He asks, finally.  
  
"Fine," Eames says. "Good. Been being...I mean. I got a job." Eames picks at his nails. The skin at the end of the nail is peeling back from all the soaking and the dishes and the soap. "Nothing amazing, but a paycheck, right?"  
  
Arthur looks at him and Eames' nails are bleeding now and he tucks his hands in his armpits.   
  
"I'll be a regular tax payer in no time." Eames adds and Arthur nods again and swallows and Eames could probably break a window and get onto the garage roof if he wanted, jump from there and run for it. "Sammy? She's been... okay?"  
  
"She's missed you." Arthur says. "I didn't kick you out." He adds, turning his head up. "That's never what I meant to do."  
  
"Yeah. Well. I can read between the lines." Eames says. "You didn't need to ask me to go, so i went, and now I'm gone and I'm not going to self destruct. I'm going to school, I've got a job. I'm fine. Made a friend all by myself."  
  
Arthur is staring at him and Eames shuts up and kicks the hardwood.   
  
"So you don't need to worry about me. Or...whatever. I'm not the dumb kid you met last Christmas. I'll be fine." Eames swallows the brick in his throat.

 

 

####  [Re: Rule Ten (Part 165)](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3831466#cmt3831466)

on 2011-03-07 01:44 am (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

Okay, tomorrow we're going to start a new thread. TAKE NOTE.  
  
Arthur gets up and stands in front of Eames and Eames looks at his knees.  
  
"You're never confused by any of this?' Arthur asks, quietly and his hands are hanging at his sides and Eames wants to touch or for Arthur to touch or for _something_ to touch. "You never wake up and go _What are we doing?_ "  
  
"No." Eames says.  
  
Arthur half laughs and Eames just watches. "Never? You never step back and think about the consequences?"  
  
Eames grits his teeth and gets up. "No, I don't. I didn't think about that, because I figured you had it covered, what with looking guilty every time you touch me."   
  
Arthur holds his ground they're still not looking each other in the eye, Eames is staring at Arthur's shoulder and who knows where Arthur's looking.  
  
"I feel guilty." Arthur says. Admits. And Eames stands there and waits for the rest and Arthur seems caught on that. Stuck there. And Eames moves past him to try the door. He could kick it down, maybe, except Mal had replaced all the cheap fiberboard Suburban doors with proper heavy oak doors. Those weren't going anywhere.  
  
"Why?" Eames said. "Why do you need to feel guilty? Why can't you just... why does there need to be guilt?" He sits with his back to the door. "I'm young, fine, but that's not my fault. That's not your fault. Why do you need to keep...punishing us, for things that we can't help?"  
  
"I'm not punishing you." Arthur says, sliding down next to him. "Or, I don't _mean_ to."  
  
"Well you are." Eames says. "You're punishing us. You love me. You said." Eames taps his fingers against the wallpaper. "You love me, and I love you, and I don't understand why you have to." Eames pulls his knees up.   
  
'Why I have to feel like I'm corrupting you?" Arthur says. "Why do I have to feel like... what should be warm and platonic and paternal got twisted and perverted and you're too kind to see it."  
  
"What, you've pulled the wool over my eyes and I'm just the sweet, helpless little doe who fell into the wolf's clutches?" Eames turns to look at Arthur. "Seriously? Yes, okay. Fine. I'm helpless."  
  
"I'm not talking about what is. I'm talking about what it feels like to me." Arthur says. "I _feel_ like I'm taking advantage of you. I'm not saying that that's what's true."  
  
"Well it's not." Eames says. "And you should stop it, because I'll wait. I'll wait until you stop being dumb, but that's something you need to deal with, alright? I don't." Eames needs to breathe a moment and Arthur is right there and he is _tired_ and he is sick of this and he wants to go home. Real home. In his real bed, with his real weird-mural thing, and his dog and his boyfriend and he wants them to be boyfriends and not this half-life. Not, like, vampires: undead. UnBoyfriends.   
  
Arthur exhales like Eames has punched him. "So you don't see what's wrong with just...waiting? You're going to put yourself on hold until...when?"  
  
"Yes. And you're not. Go on and tell me that you weren't waiting for some unspecified day when I'll be magically 'ready' and you can fuck me all guilt free and responsible. It's not going to happen, Arthur. There's never going to be a day when you feel perfectly okay about this, because you're always going to sit there and wonder if I'm there because you tricked me somehow. And yeah, fine, my childhood wasn't all teddy bears and roses. You can't change that and I can't change that and I wish you'd stop blaming me for it, because I'm trying. I am trying." Eames gets up because he's too full of...of...like...live wires to sit down. All caffine and electricity and no room.  
  
"I'm not blaming you."  
  
"Fuck you aren't." Eames says, squaring on him. Eames can't help that his mum is bit vague and his step dad's a prick and his real dad is...and it's not his fault. It's not his _fault_ Arthur is the best thing that has, it's not. It's not his fault, and he wants to make it better, but he can't if he doesn't know what he's doing wrong. "I get it, I pushed. But I shouldn't have and I'm sorry. I won't-"  
  
"You shouldn't have to worry about pushing me." Arthur says. "I should be able to..." Arthur sighs and when Eames looks at him, he's pale. He's pale and his eyes are red and Eames moves over to him.

 

####  [Re: Rule Ten (Part 166)](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3834282#cmt3834282)

on 2011-03-07 03:11 am (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

More Tomorrow  
  
"What the fuck-Have you not slept at all? What?" Eames lifts his head and there're smudges under his eyes and Arthur twists his head away. "Arthur." Eames bends his head until it's pressed to Arthur's chest and Artur puts his hands on Eames head like... Eames doesn't know. He doesn't know anything.  
  
"You think I like seeing you like this?" Eames asks, crowding over Arthur like he can make it better if he just touches enough of him. "You're the only good thing. Okay? The only. The best thing and the good thing and even if you moved away. If you left town tomorrow and I never saw you again? You'd still be the best thing."  
  
"I want you to have only good things." Arthur says.  
  
"I'll pick them up along the way." Eames says, pressing his face into Arthur's neck. "You're not going to let me become some kept boy manslave, Arthur. You're always going to push me to be...more. I'm not sorry we met when we did. I'm not and you can't make me. And if I had the perfect childhood then I would have just been some brat at your party, or somewhere else, and you would have never looked twice at me."   
  
"But you would have found someone." Arthur says, but he doesn't sound like he means it and Eames rolls them so Arthur is in his lap, for once and Eames curls around him, because he's strong and he can defend Arthur from anything. That's who he wants to be. The kind of guy who can protect Arthur from everything. Even the muck in his head.  
  
"Well they don't get to have me, because they don't want me. Not the way I am. Not the way this is. You want me, so much it...it hurts you. You didn't invite me into your house that first time for some hot underage cock, did you?"  
  
"Eames-"  
  
" _Did_ you?" Eames insists and Arthur's not going anywhere. Arthur shakes his head, after a moment and Eames wants to just...squeeze the stupid out of him.  
  
"You didn't trick me, alright? This isn't some long con you pulled, okay. I'm here, and if I'm not here, then I'm out there waiting to be here, and you may tell me that's dysfunctional or stupid or crazy, but fuck it, I love you, so I'm going to be dysfunctional and stupid and crazy until you tell me that there's not a chance, until you get it through my dumb skull that we can never, ever happen, and I will fight, okay? I will be stubborn and stupid and I will fight until you."  
  
Arthur shudders and Eames holds on tighter. "You can't get rid of me by saying I'd be better for me to go. This isn't about sex, or sceneing, or what the fuck ever, yes I want to shag until our brains come out, and yes I want to...to be where you put me, but even if you don't, even if you _never do_ , I'm going to be here, and I'm going to love you and you can't fucking stop me. I got you to fall in love with me all by myself, thanks, and you can't take it back. So whatever motions we need to go through to fix your morals, I'll do them, but...but you have to accept that if you don't let me in then I'll just be sitting out in the cold and waiting for you."  
  
"That been steeping for awhile?" Arthur asks.  
  
Eames just holds on and Arthur goes quiet and they sit there, for awhile, because Eames doesn't have any words left and all he has left is to hold on until the world goes the way he wants.  
  
Arthur is quiet, and when Eames checks, asleep. Eames kisses Arthur's temple, because he can. "This isn't over."  
  
He picks Arthur up and Arthur flops in his arms, and Eames doesn't mind, just gets Arthur in bed, all limbs and dead weight. Eames tugs off his shoes and socks, glancing at Arthur before bending and pressing another, quiet kiss to Arthur's sole, then climbing into the bed, wrapping himself around Arthur and closing his eyes.

 

 

####  [Rule Ten (Part 167)](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3847338#cmt3847338)

on 2011-03-07 11:32 pm (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

Eames wakes up to Mal shaking his shoulder and holding a plate of sandwiches. "Up you get."  
  
Eames rubs his eyes and Arthur is still asleep, curled up, head on Eames shoulder and Mal smiles at him a moment, before putting the plate on his stomach.   
  
"Your friend left. He said to give you this." She holds out a bit of scrap paper with a number on it and he takes it from her. "I gave him your number too. You two work some things out?"  
  
Eames is a bit too busy with the thought of Arthur curled up on top of him, of Arthur being here and back and neither of them fighting for a moment. Eames slides down the bed and pulls Arthur that little bit closer. "I think?"  
  
Mal looks at Eames before fixing his hair like she can't quite stop herself and Eames lets her. "It's hard for him. You are like me, you look at him and think _him. He's who I'll love._ and it's clear. Hard to get there, but you and I. We know what we want and we persist. Arthur..." She smoothes Arthur hair back. It's gone curly and Eames wishes he could see Arthur all mussed up and relaxed more. He wishes he could see it whenever he wants. "Arthur is the type of man to over think everything. That's what he does, that's what he's paid for. He can know he loves you, but he has to dig and find the root of it, and what it means."  
  
"Yeah." Eames says and Mal lowers her hand and sighs.  
  
"I will tell Arthur to jump in feet first and I will tell him that until I make his ears bleed and he jumps in just to stop me talking, but you? Here's what I'll tell you. Take your time. You're young. You're _both_ young, 25 is barely an adult anymore. You will have decades to be together, but the getting together, the...forelsket."   
  
"Bless you."  
  
She slaps his cheek lightly. "It's a Norwegian word. It means, the euphoria you feel when you first fall in love. That fades after awhile, and you get something warm and comfortable and dependable in return, but you must enjoy the forelsket while you can, hmm? And give Arthur time to pick his way across all his little brain teasers so you can have something loving and real and solid."  
  
Eames nods and she kisses his cheek and slides out of the room, leaving the door open a crack.  
  
Eames eats his sandwich.

\---

  
  
Arthur makes dinner, because Dom reasons that Arthur is the cook and the person who can cook, should cook. Eames has a kid under each arm as he runs back and forth in the yard, Sammy following and barking, while Millie sits in the kitchen and waits for Arthur to give into her droopy eyes and give her cheese.  
  
Arthur sometimes just stops and watches Eames for a second or two, just because he can, and Mal and Dom are candoodling in the living room while he makes tuna casserole, all thick cream and golden, crunchy potato chips, and fresh tuna, because no one should eat meat from a can. Or, really, anything from a can, if they could help it.  
  
And he has a plan. He finally has a real and actual plan, and he's going to talk to Eames about it, and they're going to agree to it, and everything will be clear and put in it's proper location in his head, and everything will be good. His plan, for the most part, is simple: he's going to stop worrying about it.  
  
He's not going to stop worrying about Eames. He's not physically or mentally capable of that. He's going to be worrying about Eames for the rest of his life, and he's fine with that. You worry about the people you love, but you also, eventually, trust them enough to not do anything particularly stupid.   
  
No, he's going to stop worrying about the rest of it. Not completely, not at all at once, and not right away, and they're going to have to talk about exactly what hoops they have to jump through to assuage the monster in his mental closet, but he's just...going to go with it. He's in a relationship with a seventeen year old, a romantic one, if not currently a physical one, and he can't let go of his responsibilities to Eames welfare. But he's not going to worry about it.

 

####  [Re: Rule Ten (Part 168)](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3847594#cmt3847594)

on 2011-03-07 11:33 pm (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

That's his plan, and it loosens something hard and nervous in his stomach, lets him breathe, because he's not going to worry about it. He's not sure _how_ to not worry about things, but that's part of the plan. Learning how to do that.  
  
"Food?" Eames asks, hopefully, when he comes in, sitting against the wall, hands buried in Sammy's fur.  
  
"Not yet. You busy tonight?"  
  
Eames pauses and fiddles with Sammy's collar. "Not really, no. Homework, I mean, but other than that."  
  
"If you want you can come back to the house. We can finish talking."  
  
Eames wraps his arms around his dog and her tail is going to fall off, it hasn't stopped wagging since they got here. "Still just talking?"  
  
"Talking is good." Arthur looks at the oven. "I am told with embarrassing frequency that we should talk more."  
  
  
"Yeah. Well." Eames scratches at Sammy's belly and she flops all over him and Arthur is glad, if for nothing else, that they're back together. "We suck at talking. But sure. We'll talk more. We'll talk until we need to get little robots to talk for us."  
  
Arthur smiles and the air is strained and feels too tense, but that's only to be expected. Arthur just lets it sit, and Eames is still either pointedly not looking at him, or shooting him these little glances like he's throwing knives.  
  
"We're boyfriends." Eames says, blurts, more and Arthur moves to sit next to him on the hard granite flooring. "I don't mind if we don't scene or...shag, or whatever. For awhile. I'm fine with that. Well, not fine, but I can handle it. I just want to be a label. I don't want to be complicated, or vague, or floaty, I just. I want to be boyfriends, and secret, sure or...whatever the politically correct term for secret is, but boyfriends. Who do boyfriend stuff."  
  
"And what is boyfriend stuff?"  
  
Eames is back to picking at his nails and Arthur grabs his hand so he won't make himself bleed again and Eames looks at their hands. "You know. Boyfriend stuff."  
  
"Tell me what boyfriend stuff is." Arthur wraps his hands around Eames and Eames swallows. "I want to be entirely clear what you mean."  
  
"I want... dates, and stuff. Not like...candles, and flowers and romantic shit, but just. Going out and having fun together, and I want to be able to touch you and for you to touch me and for that to be okay, and no...no sex stuff. Like, we can draw a really clear line there, if you want, but kissing, I want. I want kissing and...I want anything Dom and Mal do in front of us to be okay."  
  
Arthur considers this. "And that's all you want?"  
  
"I want to know what we _are_." Eames says. "I want to be able to look at you and have a title in my head, and yeah, it's a dumb title, but its better than nothing."  
  
"And you want us to be monogamous?"  
  
"Yes." Eames says, and Arthur nods. "And I want us to be equal, yeah? I mean, it's your house, and whatever, and you do the finances, fine. That's your thing, but when it comes to stuff between us, you don't go rogue and decide what's best. If something bothers you, you tell me, and...Rule 10." Eames lowers his voice. "When it comes to stuff about us, we're equal, okay?"  
  
"Kissing?"  
  
"I." Eames distracts himself with Sammy. "I want more, but...that's where things get murky. For me. So. I guess, nothing more than...thant what we'd want Phillipa and James to see, I guess."  
  
Arthur is surprised, but kissing is where it gets murky, when does it go from kissing, to necking, to dry humping and where exactly you draw that cut off point. So best to do it somewhere obvious and clear.   
  
"I want that." Arthur says and Eames smiles, and Arthur smiles back. "Boyfriends. I was going to wait until we got somewhere private for this, but, here's what I want."

 

 

####  [Re: Rule Ten (Part 169)](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3850410#cmt3850410)

on 2011-03-08 12:09 am (UTC)

Posted by  [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

More Tomorrow. Or the Next Day. Or When I Figure Out Where To Go From Here.  
  
Eames looks a bit wary and Arthur keeps a hold on his hand. "I want to wait until you're eighteen. I know it's an arbitrary number, and, I will say, even when you do turn 18 I want to talk about it first, but I want everything to be...I don't...I don't want anyone...or, or you, or me, or... It would help me, if we waited."  
  
It's not that he thinks Eames will regret it later, or that anyone who was going to judge them wouldn't judge them just as much next year as they would now, or that he would even, necessarily, feel less like this should be wrong, somehow, but this way, it's just. He wants to do this as close to right as he can figure out how, and it's clear. It's a clearly defined point, and what he needs is clarity, right now.  
  
Eames considers this. "For you?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"It's for you, right? For...for this to be okay for you. Nobody else. You're not doing this for me, or, well, kind of me. But this is a you thing. For you to be comfortable, right?"  
  
Arthur nods.   
  
"Yeah, okay." Eames says. "We'll wait until I'm eighteen, and in exchange, you're going to stop feeling guilty. Or you're going to try to. Or you're going to tell me when you are. But you're going to tell me that sort of shit, alright?"  
  
Arthur agrees and Eames leans on his shoulder, Sammy flopping down on Arthur's lap too so she can get maximum belly rub coverage, and Arthur thinks, yes. This is something they can do.  
  
"I still want everything I wanted before. I want you to make friends, I and I don't want to get into anything too intense before you have the support network for it. You understand that, though, right? When I say intense I mean _intense_ not serious, because I take this seriously. I've always taken you seriously."  
  
"Why?" Eames asks, "You said that, but you never explain why."  
  
Arthur looks up and sees a flash of blonde hair near the doorframe and he bends his head. "I'll tell you anything you want when there aren't any little ears ready to soak up big secrets. Tonight?"  
  
Eames glances and must catch the same little flash of Phillipa and James spying and he squeezes Arthur's hand and tries to retrieve his hand and Arthur grips on and Eames looks at him.  
  
"If you conquer it, it's yours." Arthur says and kisses Eames knuckles, before opening his hands and checking on the casserole.  
  
Eames picks up Sammy and then stops, and in a purely Mal move, tilts his cheek at Arthur and Arthur bends and presses a kiss to it. "We'll talk later."  
  
Eames smiles as he dances Sammy out of the room and Arthur snorts, washes his hands, and starts in on a salad, because he will make everyone eat their vegetables until he has to wrestle them to the ground and stuff carrots into their mouths until they're all healthy and happy and possibly yellow from the beta carotene or whatever it is that makes carrots orange. Inbreeding them so Dutch royalty would be happy or whatever.

 

####  [Re: Rule Ten (Part 170)](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3872682#cmt3872682)

on 2011-03-09 11:18 pm (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

Eames sat at the edge of the bed. Mum was propped up with more pillows than Eames thought they owned.  
  
"Oh I knew it was a possibility." She said. "I'm forty. Pregnancies this late in life, well. There are always risks."  
  
Eames hadn't known their were risks. Eames hadn't known that his mum had collapsed at work and started...and had to go to the Doctor. He hadn't known any of it until he came home and his mum was there and on bedrest and the Prick had given him one of his sort of rambling, distrustful speeches about how she needed quiet and peace.  
  
But mum didn't need that speech. She needed her rest. And soup. So Eames got her soup and she smiled and held his hand. "It's just going to be so _boring_ cooped up here for another three months. I don't think I can stand it."  
  
"I'll keep you company." Eames promised. He could make time, he just had to go to school for eight hours a day and finish his homework-but he could do that whenever, then go to work until he wasn't legally allowed to anymore, usually until ten, build Mal's garden paradise when he didn't have work, keep up with Ariadne, and try and grab whatever moments with Arthur, usually during meals.   
  
Mum smiled at him and patted his cheek and he smiled back, then she sighed. "But three whole _months_. I ask the doctor if I could go to work if I just sat in a desk chair and he wouldn't hear of it. Can you believe it. And it was a male doctor too. I bet I could go and he just thinks I'm too fragile."  
  
"Mum, if the doctor said to sit then you should sit. We could play rummy, yeah?" Eames offered, but mum was already rolling onto her side and grumbling, and there was no pulling her out of a mood.   
  
"I can't wait till this thing is born so I can go back to work. Babies practically raise themselves these days, and you weren't that difficult."  
  
Eames pets her hair out of her face. "I'll help."  
  
Mum was glaring down at her stomach. "Well, yes, until you're eighteen, and then I'll have to hire a nanny and that'll just be a nightmare. I just left you with the lady downstairs half the time, when you were little. You loved it." She stares out the window. "Three months. And that's if we don't decide to rent a beach house and keep me out there. You'd take care of the house, of course."  
  
"I can stick around after I'm eighteen, mum." Eames said, "Keep the little one out of trouble."  
  
"No, you can't." She said, distantly, "that was the agreement."  
  
"What agreement?" Eames said, pausing, because he didn't make any agreement, save the one with Prick to not kill each other in the house.  
  
"Carl and I could get married again, and he would help pay for you, but only until you were eighteen, and then you'd have to find your own way."  
  
Eames gets up. "So, what. Eighteenth birthday you just kick me out?"  
  
Mum looks up and frowns. "Oh sweetie, you'll be fine. You've always been good at taking care of yourself."  
  
"Yeah, because you wouldn't." Eames shouts, "Fuck, you think I liked the lady downstairs? She smelled and she was mean and she didn't let me touch anything, I hated her. And I hated coming home to a crap flat where we didn't even have a stove and just a crap kettle from Tesco, I hated that you married goddamn fucking Carl, and you two should never have a kid, because without me? That kid is going to be the same fucked up little punter I was."  
  
"Charles." His mum says, and then stops. "You loved her. You did. You've always liked being independent."  
  
"No, mum. I didn't and I don't. I just had to be because you wouldn't take care of me and what? Now you're having another baby? And you don't even tell me, and you don't tell me you got sick and you don't tell me you're just going to kick me out of the house and...you know." Eames drags a hand through his hair.

 

####  [Re: Rule Ten (Part 171)](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3876522#cmt3876522)

on 2011-03-10 12:31 am (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

More Tommara  
  
"I worked all day to-"  
  
"When you married the Prick you said he would have to do the taxes since you'd never figured out how. And yet the taxes got done. Who do you think did them, hm? Me. And when you came home, the flat was always clean do you remember doing that? Do you _ever_ remember how you got up in the mornings? While you were shagging your way to a thrift-store wedding ring I took care of everything and you-"  
  
He stops, because she's crying and his stomach just turns to cold oatmeal. "Mum, God, mum. Sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't..."  
  
"It was the only way he'd take me back," She said and he tucked her into his shoulder. "And I tried. I did try. I tried so hard for you, and you were always acting up in school and it was hard. It was just so hard. I was supposed to be young and enjoying my life, and instead I had a kid who kept...I tried Charles."  
  
Eames doesn't say anything.

\---

  
Someday, Arthur thinks, someday Arthur is going to steal Eames from the world and Eames will be nothing but happy.  
  
"What's wrong?"  
  
Eames fits his socked toes up against Arthur's foot. "Tell me you love me."  
  
Arthur pulls back Eames hood. "I love you."  
  
Eames nods and swallows. "Tell me you want me around."  
  
"Eames, what happened?"  
  
"Just tell me." Eames said and Arthur gets them to the couch.  
  
"I want you here because I enjoy your company, I chose to let you into my life and I don't regret that. I like it when you're around." Arthur tried, and Eames doesn't seem satisfied, but Arthur doesn't know what to say. "I want you here. When you're older I'd want you to move in. You've basically already have."  
  
"Good, because at eighteen they're kicking me out. Only birthday they'll remember, I bet." Eames is biting his thumbnail and then he;s on Arthur like a blanket, just moves and Arthur has an armload of Eames. Or several armloads. Eames is good at bulking up, something Arthur's never gotten the knack of it.   
  
"And it's not like they're just kicking me out, either. That was the fucking _agreement_. Back when I was a little kid, mum decided she rather be married to the fucking Prick than have me. I mean." Eames gets up and moves to the kitchen and Arthur watches. "Mum has always been a bit. But this is different. She _meant_ to do this. This isn't just her being...whatever. This is on purpose."  
  
Eames stands in the middle of the kitchen and Arthur gets up and grabs him by the shoulders.  
  
"Your mother doesn't deserve you."  
  
Eames looks at the floor and Arthur shakes him.   
  
"I love you. I want you. I appreciate you. I appreciate what you're doing for Mal, I appreciate that you try so hard for your family, I appreciate that you try so hard for me. When you're eighteen you can move in here, and we'll figure out where to go from there."  
  
"I know. I know that. I mean. If you didn't want me, then...I'd figure-"  
  
"I want you. I want you here. I have never asked anyone to live with. I have never _wanted_ to live with anyone."   
  
Eames wipes his mouth and nods. "Yeah, I mean. Fine. It's fine. I didn't want to live there then, anyways. Would have left sooner, if I could. It just. Threw me."  
  
"You have a right to be thrown."  
  
"I know that. I can feel whatever I want. You're the one with that problem." Eames shoves Arthur just this side of playfully and Arthur grapples him until Eames is laughing and wrestling with him instead of...and Arthur, maybe, previously, if this were all aboveboard, gone and yelled at Eames' mother, but he's now realized that nothing he says will get through to her. There are some people who just...and he doesn't want to say "shouldn't have children" because he can't regret Eames, but he would have liked if Eames could have been stolen away by a different, better family.  
  
It's for the best that Arthur can't travel through time.  
  
"I can stay here tonight even though they're at home?"  
  
"I think we can redact that Rule." Arthur says as he gets up to make cocoa. Cocoa will solve all the problems. "You've outgrown that one. And I probably need to reorder them in general. We can do that on Saturday after our movie?"  
  
"New rules?"  
  
"New rules."

 

####  [Re: Rule Ten (Part 172)](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3886762#cmt3886762)

on 2011-03-11 01:11 am (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

Eames was standing in front of the door.  
  
Eames had moved out a week ago. There had barely been anything left at the house he'd wanted to keep, and if they wanted to throw everything in the garbage, then that wasn't his problem. He stuck his mobile behind the back wheel of Ariadne's car last time he'd seen her. He didn't bother ditching the key because he figured Prick would get all the locks changed.  
  
The only hard part had been saying goodbye to Trick. Mum called him "Patty" and Prick said that nicknames were demeaning, but Trick hated both of the two of them, so they could fuck off. They'd been interviewing nannies and Eames had been doing his own interview process before anyone got to the door.   
  
He would have stayed for Trick. He really would have. He'd always wanted a brother, and as soon as he got one he had to go. But maybe, when the kid was older. Going to preschool, or whatever. And he could drop off cards and shit.   
  
So tonight there were no bags for his to haul. Robert had come down for the party, and Eames hadn't asked him to, just mentioned that P House was throwing one. And that'd been good. That'd been awesome. And Mal and Dom and Arthur had thrown him another party, with cinnamon french toast and presents and Arthur's weird balloon fetish had been maintained, and Dom had grilled meat, and it'd been good. This year, for the most part, had been good. Dinners with the Cobbs. Random messages from Robert that were all dry humour and sarcasm, Ariadne being Ariadne. The gradual, but steady growth of his savings account, Arthur being Arthur. Sammy sometimes being able to figure out stairs when she put her mind to it. Patrick being born and liking Eames best. It was good. Fine. Brilliant.   
  
Except for the parts that were terrible.The parts where Arthur still looked like he was going to be sick with himself. The bits where Prick had triumphantly told Eames that they were going to the beach house for the remainder of the pregnancy, and if anything happened to the house, Eames would go up on criminal charges. The Prick gleefully saying that Eames couldn't live with them past 18 and Eames telling he already knew, already had a place lined up. That it was better than Prick could afford, what with be a middle-age man forever trapped in middle management because he was a useless sod.   
  
"And the best part, yeah? Your own son is going to grow up and he's going to hate you just as much as I do, and we're going to shove you in the cheapest piece of shit nursing home we can fine and watch you die." Eames had said.  
  
"My son won't be an ungrateful, useless, lazy idiot."  
  
"No, but he'll hate you. And you know how I know? Because no kid in the world would respect a cowardly, selfish prick who works a full 50 hour work week and hasn't been promoted in seven years."  
  
"One day the police will come by to have me identify your coked-out body, and we won't even have a funeral." The Prick had snarled and left and Eames looked forward to the day that man go laid off from work and turned into a fat alcoholic drain on society.  
  
Eames stared at the door. He'd been standing here for at least fifteen minutes. The lights were on. Arthur was home. He was expecting him. Eames was going to be eighteen in just a few hours.  
  
Eames fiddled with the key.  
  
The last few months had been good. They'd been mostly good. They'd been...he'd had Arthur. He'd had Arthur but he hadn't, hadn't really, because they both went to their own rooms to jerk off, or not. Eames touched the wood of the door and rested his head next to the decorative knocker and rolled his forehead against the wood.   
  
It's just so much fucking _pressure_. Like, he's been wanting. He's been wanting for just this side of forever and it's a fucking jungle in his head about how much he _wants_ , but there's also that bit where it's been building for _fucking ever_ and it's like _Star Wars_ , right? Where he didn't see it as a kid, and so the entire universe talked it up, until he watched it and it was just a lot of people dressed in white being fucking morons and Arthur had looked at Eames like he's just said the breathing wasn't all that great, actually.  
  
"But _Star Wars_ is awesome." Arthur had said.

 

####  [Re: Rule Ten (Part 173)](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3890602#cmt3890602)

on 2011-03-11 02:49 am (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

And you thought this day would never come. WELL IT STILL HASN'T. MORE TOMORROW.  
  
"But _everyone says that_ and then all I could think about while watching it was _oh and then there's this scene_ and _Han Solo is the coolest motherfucker ever_ and _I am your father._ "  
  
"I'm going to get a time machine and find seven year old you and then seven year old you can watch this. And you'll grow up to be a huge nerd, but I'll still love you."  
  
Maybe he'd be happy with anything. But maybe it'd be terrible. What if he was terrible? What if there was all this build up and it was _terrible_ -  
  
Arthur opened the door and Eames gripped onto his back pack strap like it might decide to take him to space.  
  
Arthur leaned on the doorjamb and Eames wanted to stop being nervous. He needed to stop being nervous.  
  
Eames just looked at him and Arthur held out his hand. "Come on." Arthur said, and he doesn't even have an expression like he thinks Eames is stupid for being afraid of what he's basically been half-dying for for ages.   
  
Eames took Arthur's hand and let himself be pulled inside.

\---

  
  
"Eames, take off your shoes and put down your bag."  
  
"Have we started?" Eames asks, "I mean. Uh. The scene? Did we-"  
  
"No. You'll know before we start. We'll talk about it."  
  
"But we've been talking." Eames says.  
  
Arthur is making cookies, because he's just as nervous because you have to be careful about these sorts of things. They have talked. They've talked and discussed and researched, and they've got the theory behind what they want down, but sometimes that's all it is. Sometimes all it is is finding something theoretically arousing and not... and the pressure to preform is always frustrating and Eames looks ready to pop out of his skin.  
  
"The talking is never over." Arthur says, scooping gingersnap dough up with a one ounce scoop and rolling the dough in sugar because he wanted to strip Eames and tie him to the bed and _keep him there_.  
  
Eames watches him and then he's up and pacing, hands gripping the back of his neck and Arthur continued rolling out his cookies, watching.  
  
"I just. I don't know what I'm supposed to-"  
  
"What I tell you." Arthur interrupts, wiping his hands clean and dragging Eames over to sit in a nearby chair. Eames stares at him and Arthur presses their foreheads together. "You don't need to worry. You don't need to think about this, okay? I'm going to take care of you."  
  
Eames shifts and Arthur flicks his ear.   
  
"Hey," Eames jerks away.  
  
"Do you trust me?"  
  
"It's not about trust," Eames rubs his ear, "I trust you, I just-"  
  
"It is about trust. We've talks about this. If you trust me, if you just...relax and let me do my thing, then you can't fail. There is no way to lose, here."  
  
"I'm not worried, I'm fine. I'm going to get to shag you, yeah?"   
  
Arthur slides his hands up to around Eames neck, feeling his pulse hammering against his palms. "It's not now or never. It's a dam breaking, we've had nearly a year and a half of foreplay and you finally get to get off."  
  
Eames inhales, sharp and desperate and his skin is so warm Arthur could fall into it.  
  
"I know. I know that, but...what if I suck?"  
  
"You'll suck what and when I tell you." Arthur says, and presses his lips to Eames, who comes at him hungry. Arthur grabs Eames wrists and Eames lets Arthur wrap his fingers around the seat of the chair.  
  
"Right now all you need to do is sit right here." Arthur says, perched on Eames and Eames has his forehead against Arthur's sternum. "Just keep you hands where I put them and stay here. That's the only thing you need to do. Nothing else matters, because I'm going to take care of it."  
  
"You're patronizing me."  
  
Arthur flicks his ear and Eames flinches.  
  
"I'm doing what I _like_ with you, because that's what makes me happy, and you _want_ to make me happy. I want you here, so you stay here."  
  
Arthur gets up and feeds Eames a ball of dough and Eames looks somewhat contented by this. Arthur thinks, for a small, brilliant moment, that this is the start of something. Eames has preconceptions and Arthur wants to break all of them, and Eames has hang-up and kinks and a thing for his feet, and there's just...possibility, here. There's so much to _do_.

 

####  [Re: Rule Ten (Part 174)](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3913130#cmt3913130)

on 2011-03-13 04:35 am (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

Okay, I'm high on...various...medications but I have been reliably informed that the only difference this makes in my writing is that there is a decrease in my ability to spell and an increase in rambling. In other words, exactly how I write fanfic anyways.  
  
Eames stayed in the chair as Arthur put the cookies in the oven, hands wrapped around the seat of the chair, knuckles white and eyes watching Arthur like Arthur might vanish, or like he might fall apart, or like a fire might start and ruin everything in last moment.  
  
Arthur washed his hands and returned to his boy, running his fingers down Eames throat, relishing the prickle of stubble, and the softness of warm skin and the indent along his collarbones. His tattoos peeked out in this shirt and Arthur traced his nail over the few letters he could catch and Eames swallowed, lips parted and Arthur could kiss him, now, if he wanted, could tilt Eames chin up and kiss him like they've both been wanting to. He could. He wants to, and he will, but right now he wants to touch.  
  
He circles the chair and Eames tries to follow him, craning his neck up until his head's hanging back and Arthur pushes it back forward, until it's tucked up against his chest and Arthur lightly scratches against the nape of Eames neck. "I'm not going anywhere."  
  
"I know." Eames says and shifts in the chair, shivering against Arthur's touch and Arthur had nearly forgot what this felt like, what it was like to have someone- someone beautiful and attentive and intelligent enough to catch his eye- in the palm in his hand. Having someone be his, for however brief a time. And Eames isn't just anyone, he isn't just a playmate, he's _Eames_ and Arthur wants to do things he's never even considered before, just because he could, because this is Eames, and Eames is his.  
  
He settles his hands down on Eames shoulders and digs his thumbs in where the knots always are and Eames curls up into it, and Arthur likes giving backrubs, far more than he likes getting them. getting them just makes any tension he has worse, but giving them is something to focus on, something he can do with his hands while Eames drags him into watching another movie.  
  
Eames shifts into the chair until he gets the idea that Arthur isn't going to relent until he _calms down_ and the cords of tension along his neck and spine slowly go slack under Arthur's hands.   
  
"When are we going to...you know?" Eames asks.  
  
"Eames, tell me something" Arthur says, tracing the inside of Eames shirt collar, tugging Eames hand back until it hits Arthur's stomach and Eames is watching his fingers. "When, to you knowledge, have you ever known me to rush something?"  
  
"Fuck," Eames curses, soft and Arthur pets his knuckles down the side of Eames neck.   
  
"How would you describe me, Eames? Sloppy? Lazy? Rushed?"  
  
"Sadistic." Eames hisses and Arthur kisses the top of his head.  
  
"No. I'm not going to hurt you tonight," Arthur promises, "I'm going to make you feel good, and I'm going to do it the way I do everything: methodical, measured and thorough."  
  
Eames whines and Arthur kisses his temples.  
  
" _When_ though?" Eames asks. "I've been waiting for bloody ever, you know. I want- Come on, we can take the edge off and then do the slow stuff, yeah? Please?"  
  
"But the edge is what makes it fun." Arthur nips under his jaw and Eames jerks in the chair before turning to watch Arthur pulling back and getting the wire cooling racks out.  
  
"For fuck's sake Arthur-"  
  
"Recite the rules for me, Eames." Arthur says, because it seems the best way to distract him and Eames looks somewhat chastened and chews on the inside of his cheek.  
  
"Rule One, don't do anything to myself I would be ashamed of having you see." Eames' hands twitched like he wants to bite his nails, but he keeps them where Arthur put them.  
  
"And why not?"  
  
Eames looks at his feet, "then I might hide from you when I need you, so it's better if I just don't do it."  
  
"Good. Second rule?" Arthur asks, opening the oven to rotate the trays of cookies and Eames looks up when he gets a whiff of them.  
  
"Rule Two, this is a relationship of equals." Eames looks up and smiles to himself a little.

 

 

####  [Re: Rule Ten (Part 175)](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3914410#cmt3914410)

on 2011-03-13 05:37 am (UTC)

Posted by  [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

More Tomorrow. Also you are all painfully wonderful and I will respond to your comments of joy and beauty and well-wishing when my responses won't be the ravings of foam-mouthed madwoman and instead return to the gentler, spittle-flying-verb-I-can't-conjugate madwoman. AND YOU CAN'T STOP ME.  
  
Arthur leans on the warm door of the oven and Eames looks at Arthur's feet because that's what he does when they talk about rules. He did it when they were making them, he does it when Arthur has him recite them. Arthur has yet to figure out exactly how to best take advantage of Eames' fixation, but he keeps the knowledge tucked away for when he needs it.  
  
"Which means?"  
  
"With pre-agreed temporary exceptions we have an equal say on what we do and when we do it, and all that sort of stuff, and when it's not sex, we're on even-footing. You don't ignore me or decide what's best, and I don't assume I'm going to be ignored. And I have to tell you." Eames flicks up at Arthur. "Feeling kind of ignored now."  
  
"I'm not ignoring you, I am very aware of what you want me to do. I'm just not doing what you want." Arthur says.  
  
Eames inches his foot forward and Arthur places his own on top of it, holding it against the floor. Eames foot flexes against his own and then Eames settles a little, licking his lips like he knows Arthur can't stop staring at them. Of course he does, because he's caught Arthur at it before. Eames licks them again, a slow drag of his tongue and Arthur meets Eames eyes and gestures for him to continue.   
  
"I should be getting some reward here." Eames says and leans up.  
  
"Should you? This is you being good, then?"  
  
Eames nods and Arthur presses his foot down and Eames inhales, short and Arthur tracks his foot up along the line of Eames calf.  
  
"You get rewarded when you earn it." Arthur says, "It's not much of a reward if you don't have to work for it first."  
  
Eames stares at Arthur foot and nods. Arthur pulls it back because he may have underestimated how distracting they are to Eames. He should figure out if they just represent something, or if Eames just happens to have a foot fetish. He's never mentioned anything, and he's mentioned quite a few things to Arthur during some of their talks.  
  
"Three, Be honest." Eames fills in the gaps before Arthur can ask, "And this is on your rule list too, but if I don't like something, or something bothers me I have to tell you and not just do it because I think you want it, or go along with it because I think you'll kick me out."  
  
"Good. Next?"  
  
"Four, you take care of me." Eames is flushed and his foot chases Arthur's again and Arthur steps out of the way, just a bit. Eames whines and then pulls his foot back. "You won't kick me out of the house as long as I need it, and you'll take care of food and transportation and stuff and support me as long as I need the help."  
  
"Just financially?" Arthur asks as he pulls the cookies out of the oven and slips some off the pan because Eames likes soft gingerbread whereas Arthur likes his to snap.  
  
"No. Emotionally and all that sort of stuff too. In return I have to find my passion, or whatever."  
  
"And I'll do this...?"  
  
"You'll do this because rule number five is You love me."  
  
Arthur put that in there entirely so Eames would have to say it every single time he recited the rules, whether it be sarcastically, or because Arthur made him, or when he took out his notebook to stare at them. It would right there, nestled in the middle.   
  
"And I follow that one by remembering it." Eames says and Arthur, then, comes over to kiss him, because he can't help himself at this point and Eames lets out this soft, accidental sort of noise and Arthur wants to _eat_ him, between the cookies and Eames sitting in the chair and doing what he's told, Arthur's mouth is watering and he's starving for more.

 

####  [Re: Rule Ten (Part 176)](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3928746#cmt3928746)

on 2011-03-14 02:02 am (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

Still sick. More tomorrow.  
Arthur likes that rule best. He didn't put the rules in order because there will be more of them, and they will change, or maybe there will be rules that stay solid and rules that fade away, but he put that one in the middle, so it would be nestled in the middle. Safe and that every time Eames said them, before he got to rule five, he had to recite what Arthur loving him _meant_.  
  
Eames stared up at him and Arthur stood and stroked through his hair, cars through the thick brush of it and Eames kept staring, pushing his head right into the caress and Arthur smiles. "Rest of them now, Eames. Then you can get a cookie."  
  
"I'm not a dog you can feed a biscuit when I do trick." Eames said, but he lacks bite and he's eying the cookies and Arthur cocks an eyebrow.   
  
"You're whatever I want you to be." Arthur says. "Give me the rest of the rules, Eames."  
  
"Six," Eames says, "I am in charge of my responsibilities."  
  
"Like?"  
  
Eames sniffed, "Homework. Chores. Sammy. You get your shit done, I get my shit done and we don't crawl up each other's asses."  
  
"Good." Arthur says and sits down again, using Eames as his own personal chair, relaxing against him because he could. He takes up one of Eames hands and it flexes in his grasp. "Give me number seven." He says tracing the lines of Eames' palm and Eames rests his head along Arthur's neck.  
  
"Rule number seven. When we scene, we scene sober, safe, sane and smart."  
  
"Do we now?" Arthur captured Eames hand between his own and Eames sniffs against his neck, purposefully smelling him and Arthur drags his fingers down along the inside of Eames wrist.   
  
"Do you need to taunt me?" Eames asked, breath quick and skittering over Arthur's skin. "Like all those talks? Keep me on the couch and have me talk about what I want and not let me back up to my room to let off any steam."  
  
"That bother you?" Arthur kisses Eames wrist. "You didn't like me prying all the secrets out of your head? You didn't like me detailing the parameters of each scenario until you understood exactly what they entailed? You didn't like squirming on the couch cushions, wanting to just pull your cock out and go at it right in front of me, but knowing you can't, so you have to wait until you can go to your room?"  
  
Eames clutches back at his hands. "I want you."  
  
"Then tell me what rule number seven means." Arthur looks right at Eames and nips at his wrist and Eames' hips push up against him and Arthur flicks his earlobe. Eames flinches and bows his head.

####  [Re: Rule Ten (Part 177)](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3942826#cmt3942826)

on 2011-03-16 08:34 pm (UTC)

Posted by  [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

I would expect updates until the end of this week. I can work and be sick, I can be sick and update, I can work and update, but I cannot do all three. I am not dead. Just dribbling at the mouth a little. Back to normal when I’m back to normal.  
  
Eames’ struggles to keep his breath even. “Rule number seven means you can’t fulfill any of your many, many promises to me unless we’re both informed about what it entails, which you think means keeping me on a couch and being a fucking tease about it.”  
  
“Eames, you’re not behaving.” Arthur gets up. Eames follows as Arthur plucks a cookie up and then begins taking them up the stairs. Up the stairs to his room. Not to the couch, or any of the normal, neutral places. Eames’ head is buzzing, but he just needs to follow Arthur’s lead. Arthur knows what he’s doing. Arthur will take care of this.  
  
“Then you should make me.” Eames says, following and wanting to pick Arthur up and take the stairs two at a time and tackle them both to the bed and then struggle with Arthur until everything fell into place. Instead he takes the stairs in Arthur’s careful footprints. “You can make me now.”  
  
“Not yet.” Arthur says, stopping on the top step, leaving Eames two down and Eames stuck staring up at him. “Rule Number Eight, Eames. Just three more.”  
  
“And then-?”  
  
“You get a cookie.” Arthur waggles the gingerbread and Eames scowls and Arthur pushes him down to his knees, right there on the step and sits above him. It’s be easy to just press hiss face to Arthur’s fly and push the situation until it went somewhere beyond anything they could control and no one could take anything back.   
  
“Just a cookie?”  
  
“The cookie is your reward, yes.” Arthur agrees, “but I have my own reward for waiting.” Arthur taps the cookie against Eames lips. “So hurry.”  
  
Eames shifts. “Rule Eight, formal playtime takes place in Arthur’s room.” Eames doesn’t wait for Arthur to ask, just jumps in, “because until this is more settled or whatever it’ll be good for us to have a place where we play and places where we’re just…us. So until we get our shit worked out anything planned goes on in your room. Anything spontaneous happens wherever. As that’s what spontaneous means. Arthur.”  
  
They’d had an argument about that.  
  
“Two more.” Arthur replied.  
  
“Rule Number Nine,” Eames knee walks up the stair and is level with Arthur’s neck, “Arthur needs rules too.”  
  
“I believe it’s phrased that you can make rules when I need them.”  
  
Eames simply repeats himself and Arthur spreads hi legs a little more, so Eames shoves up between them and rests his head on Arthur’s collarbone. “I make rules for you when you’re dumb.”  
  
“Give me the last one.” Arthur says, and Eames wraps his free hand over the top of Arthur’s foot and strokes along the curve of it. “One more, Eames.”  
  
“Rule Ten.” Eames says and tilts his face up, because after this the waiting is done. One more rule and an entire stupidly frustrating year of half-having what he wanted, and talking and talking and _fucking talking_ about all the things they could be doing, Arthur showing him the knots he knew, and looking up pictures, tangled together on the couch, a laptop balanced precariously on top of his lap, while Arthur detailed the practicalities of the fantasy in his ear and Eames just had to lie there with his cock aching in his trousers and struggle between wanting to go to his room and jerk off, or stay down there with Arthur for just another few aching, terrible, wonderful seconds.  
  
“If I need something, you’ll give it to me if I ask for it.” Eames lifts up to press his nose against Arthur’s neck, and he’s warm, Arthur is always so damn warm and he always smells good and Eames tilts his mouth up. “It means that if I ask you to fuck me, because I need it, you will. And I need it, Arthur. I need it and I’ve been waiting and you need to give it to me, yeah?”  
  
Arthur puts the cookie into his mouth and Eames bites, because it’s warm and spicy and he can smell Arthur and he’s going to _show_ Arthur what misbehaving looks like in a second, here.  
  
“What’s your reward?” Eames asks once he’s finished his.  
  
“You.” Arthur drags them up and hauls Eames into the bedroom.

 

####  [Re: Rule Ten (Part 178)](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3957162#cmt3957162)

on 2011-03-19 07:11 pm (UTC)

Posted by  [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

I'd forgotten what it was like to write porn  
  
Eames had, up until Arthur practically yanked him into the bedroom only to immediately use Eames's body to slam the door closed, and then Eames even closer to the door, assumed Arthur would continue his theme of being sort of detached from the situation. Like, he'd go sit on the bed and tell Eames to strip and crawl to the bed, or something. Which would have been fine with Eames. He liked when Arthur would tell Eames to do something with full confidence that Eames would do it. He didn't like it when anyone else did, though. Arthur had earned it, everyone else just assumed because he was a teenager he needed to listen to their _advice_.  
  
But he'd been applying what he observed, and what he'd observed was that _thus far_ was that, while Arthur was affectionate, he was careful to keep his distance when it came to orders. He'd forgotten that he _knew_ Arthur's main fantasy entree involved wrestling Eames to the ground and making him love it.  
  
Arthur manhandled him out of his shirt and Eames didn't have time to catch his breath or make his hands catch up with his sort of maybe plan of getting past all those tiny, slippery buttons and to warm, soft, previously forbidden skin. But Arthur had ripped him out of his trousers and pants with the same fierce economy of motion of him ripping corn free of its husk.  
  
Arthur stepped back to look at him and Eames stood with his back to the door, breathing, feeling the residual scrap of clothing against his legs and Arthur fully and completely staring at him. Not just glancing in passing, or the occasional stolen glance, but a full on, unashamed, devouring _stare_. Eames began to step forward and Arthur shoved him back against the door, hands on his shoulders and Eames went, knocked his head against the wood and struggled for air.  
  
"Let me look at you." Arthur said, grip softening, sliding down his arms, eyes tracking their progress and Eames stood still.  
  
"I sort of want a show here." Eames said and Arthur wrapped his hand around Eames bicep.  
  
"Flex for me."  
  
"What, seriously?"  
  
Arthur looked at him and he was entirely serious. Eames lifted his arm and, feeling incredibly dumb, curled it until the muscle swelled. But Arthur didn't laugh, his eyes darkened and his fingers clenched against the muscle and Eames tensed his arm that bit more, wanting to be impressive. Every single inch of muscle was for Arthur, and if Arthur wanted it shown off, Eames would comply.  
  
Arthur stepped back and then nodded to the bed. Eames went and sat on the edge and Arthur watched, before quietly beginning to undress.  
  
"I don't normally." He said, undoing his cuffs and then plucking open each shirt button and looking at the door. "Not because of a psychological trick, me dressed, you naked, but it's just generally not my focus."  
  
Eames watched and Arthur tugged his arms out of the sleeves and folded the shirt to rest on the top of the dresser. He unbuckled his watch and put that on top. Eames thought of his muscles like a presentation, he _looked_ big, and yes he could lift an impressive amount of weight, but what he looked like was about the look. Arthur's musculature was the kind you got by _doing_ things. It was smart muscle.  
  
"Do you remember what we discussed?" Arthur asked and Eames nodded, because they'd been talking about tonight for a solid month, because they'd been talking about doing _everything_ , and they needed to scale that down.  
  
Arthur stepped out of his trousers and briefs and stood there, naked as Eames, and still looking entirely comfortable in his skin, where Eames just wanted to jump out of his own. "You don't need to worry about anything, okay?"  
  
"I'm not worried." Eames said.  
  
Arthur smiled to himself, "Yes you are. You think if you fuck up I'm going to decide this is a terrible idea and call it off."  
  
Eames looked at the sheets. "Do not."  
  
Arthur crouched down to pull out a strong box from under his bed. "Why shouldn't you? We've talked this up for ages, and I've made it pretty clear that I have reservations about your inexperience."  
  
Eames huffed.

 

####  [Re: Rule Ten (Part 179)](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3963818#cmt3963818)

on 2011-03-19 10:38 pm (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

Arthur put in the combination and opened the lid at an angle so Eames couldn't see what was inside and Arthur closed it, holding up a pair of leather cuffs. "Which is why I wanted to tie you up, to some extent, so you'd stop worrying about it."  
  
"I'm not worried. Or nervous, or whatever." Eames insisted, because he wasn't. or if he was he didn't want Arthur to know. He was a big boy, right? he could handle this. He'd _wanted_ this.  
  
  
Arthur smiles and finishes buckling the cuffs. He doesn't attach them to anything yet, just sits on the side of the bed and bends over to kiss him, lets Eames get used to the weight around his wrists, the way the heavy leather holds on, calms his stomach, a little, because he can _feel_ them there, and they're real.  
  
"If you don't like this," Arthur says, pulling away, pressing his cheek to Eames, "If you hate this, then we'll figure something out. Do you understand that?"  
  
"I won't hate it." Eames maintained, because he had to. Arthur didn't have sex without sceneing, he'd said as much, and fucked if Eames wanted to change Arthur. He didn't. He wanted Arthur exactly as he was, and he didn't want to figure anything out, he wanted _this_. He just wasn't sure how to deal with it yet.  
  
"Then why are you so tense?" Arthur asked, hand splayed over Eames stomach and Eames began chewing his thumbnail because talking on the couch was one thing, but now they were here, and this needed to work. It had to work. If it didn't work than everything would fall apart and he couldn't let that happen. It had to be _perfect_.  
  
"And normally all it takes is my hand around your wrist to get you shifting in your seat." Arthur said, gently taking Eames mostly-soft cock in his hand and rubbing his thumb over the loose skin. "So I'm fairly sure you are nervous."  
  
"I don't need to tell you dicks are weird." Eames shift and turned his body away. "I'm fine. Just. Let's go."  
  
Arthur watched him and then kissed Eames chest. "Stay here."  
  
Eames pushed up on his elbows and watched Arthur get up and open the door. "Stay there."  
  
"Where are you."  
  
Arthur pointed to the bed and Eames fell back into the sheets and crossed his arms. He was too naked to be comfortable just lying on top of the sheets, but it would be dumb to crowd underneath them again. But people fucked under the sheets all the time. Should he go under the blankets? He picked up one tucked in edge and tugged it up and over himself.   
  
All the blankets in Arthur had were soft and it felt... better.... to be under one. He curled up and Arthur was doing something in the bathroom, Eames could hear the pipes clunking in the walls. Eames wrapped himself like a burrito and looked down at his wrists. It was brown leather, and it felt new under his fingers. Not all soft and worn in. Maybe Arthur got them just for Eames. They smelled crisp and he rolled the leather against the blankets.  
  
The door creaked and Eames curled up and buried his head between his wrists and inhaled the scent of Arthur and laundry detergent.  
  
"Eames," Arthur sighed, then sat on the bed and cupped his neck, rubbing a thumb along the tendons of his neck. "This is a bad time to decide not to trust me."  
  
"I trust you. I do. It's not you." Eames scrubbed his face.   
  
"All you have to do is be my boy for a couple of hours." Arthur said and there was a splash of water and then the soft texture of a washcloth and warm water on the back of his neck. "It's your birthday. Let me make it good for you."  
  
Eames pushes up into the heat and Arthur helps tug him free of the blankets, washing him, and Eames doesn't really know why. But it feels good. Arthur takes his arm and washes over his shoulder, under his arm, dragging hot water around his wrists and washing every single dip and bump of his hand.  
  
"Remember your last birthday?" Arthur asks, meticulous as he rubs and soothes down his forearm. "When you sort of...drifted off thinking about my shoes. What was it?"  
  
"You take care of your things." Eames says as Arthur moved down the lines of his back, hot water dripping down his spine, curling down into the sheets and Arthur kissed the bump of his spine and Eames gripped the pillow and pushed his face into it.

 

####  [Re: Rule Ten (Part 180)](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3970474#cmt3970474)

on 2011-03-20 01:55 am (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

MORE TOMORROW  
"And do you want to be one of my things?" Arthur asked rolling him over and Eames took the pillow with him. Arthur took his other arm and Eames let him have it. Arthur kissed Eames palm and Eames touched Arthur's cheek, watching him.   
  
"Yes." Eames said.   
  
"Do you want to be my favorite thing?" Arthur said, washing Eames' face, lifting his head off the mattress dipping the washcloth back into the basin and squeezing the excess out. "Outside of this room you'll be my boyfriend." He said cleaning under Eames jaw and over his chin. "We'll be equals. Outside of this room you're my partner, my boyfriend, and I love you like that."  
  
Eames swallowed, and Arthur traced the movement with the washcloth.  
  
"But inside this room," Arthur said cleaning over Eames chest, rubbing his nipple through the cloth and Eames pushed up into it, wanting to prove he was enjoying it. "When the door is closed and it's just the two of us, then you can just be mine."  
  
Eames gripped the headboard as Arthur washed his stomach, licking out the water collecting in his navel and Eames half-laughed and Arthur turned, tracing the underside of Eames dick with his knuckles. "There we go."   
  
"I do." Eames said. "I do want."  
  
Arthur looked up and then Eames cock was wrapped in the hot, soft cloth and Arthur's hand and he pushed up into it, water tricking down down his balls and writhed, legs spread for Arthur to wash them and Arthur moved to the end of the bed and put one leg over his shoulder to wash it, kneading at the muscle and Eames pulled his other leg up, to try and defend himself and Arthur took him by the knee and spread him open.  
  
"You want to be mine?" Arthur asked, and Eames turned his head, but then had to look back, because Arthur was...he was looking hopeful and intense and like all the stuff going on in Eames' stomach. He wasn't demanding it, he honestly was asking. Which was dumb, because he should know that Eames gave himself to Arthur ages ago.  
  
"Yes." Eames said, throat a tight vice and the washcloth tickling under his knee and his toes curled next to Arthur's ear.   
  
Arthur kissed Eames ankle and pushed his leg against his stomach and Eames wasn't used to being this naked in front of anyone before and he wanted to tuck up under the sheets and Arthur wouldn't let him move, pinned him open. He washed Arthur's foot with every ounce of attention Eames would return the father, rubbing along the bottom and easing the aching form the arch of his foot, the soreness of the heel and Eames bit his lip.  
  
"So if your mine, if your my boy, then you should let me take care of you." He picked up Eames other leg and pushed the one he'd just cleaned off the side of the bed so Eames was still uncomfortably open. "You should let me play with you."  
  
"What do you want me to do?" Eames asked, the water cooling on his body, shivering and wanting to push into Arthur's heat and have Arthur crowd on top of him and stop letting Eames think. He doesn't want to think. Thinking never ends well. He always gets trapped in that shower in Robert's hotel room, last year. Sometimes he still thinks Arthur is just waiting to get rid of him. Waiting for that moment when Arthur decided Eames could handle it, then shuffle him off into the world.  
  
Arthur reached up and took Eames wrists and locked them together, heat above him like a blanket and Eames tugged his hands, looking up the bed and tugging his hands again. "I want you to let me do what I feel like to you."

 

####  [Re: Rule Ten (Part 181)](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3980202#cmt3980202)

on 2011-03-21 01:19 am (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

Arthur slides down Eames body, inhaling as he goes down and he's never seen someone enjoy someone else as much as Arthur is right now. Like, when he's sucked people off it was all about the sucking off bit, you got them off, they got you off. Like a trade of services. And in porn it was just more people sort of not looking at each other and moving like that;s just what you have to do to get off.  
  
But Arthur isn't just jumping right into the getting off part, and it's not even in, like, romantic porn, when it's all kissing and touching and getting _ready_ for the getting off part. Arthur is just moving over Eames like he doesn't give a shit if either of them comes, he just wants to touch everything.   
  
Arthur pushes Eames legs wider and dips the cooling washcloth back into the lukewarm water and sliding his hand under Eames hips for him to lift up. Eames covered his eyes in the crook of his elbow.  
  
"Are you blushing?" Arthur asked and Eames wasn't. He wasn't because that's what girls did, or whatever, he wasn't some bright eyed twink, here. He's sucked guys out the back of rough trade bars, he's not embarrassed. It's just that Arthur is paying way more attention to Eames arse than he's really prepared for. The washcloth is warm and wet and he wants to just sort of scoot up to the headboard and close his knees.  
  
"I'm just overheated." Eames grumbled and when he tries to pull a leg up Arthur holds it down, washcloth stroking against his-fuck. Is Arthur going to fuck him tonight? Eames had sort of thought-and they'd talked about it. Of course they had. But Eames hadn't even been able to loosen himself up enough to enjoy it. He'd just felt dumb and quickly wiped his hand off and tried not to think about it.  
  
Arthur kept pressing in with the washcloth and water was dripping down to the sheets and Eames swallowed and lifted his arm. "I'm not blushing."  
  
"Then I should check the ceiling for natural UV radiation." Arthur is fucking smirking at him and Eames knees him in the side, and Arthur just pins his thighs open. And Eames is a bloke, so it's not like closing his knees would ever stop someone from getting to his dick, and he doesn't understand why he wants to play prim now and cross his legs, but it's just. It's weird.  
  
"Turn over." Arthur says and Eames freezes before flipping over in a sudden, determined movement, because he's not going to chicken out now. Not for something as dumb as the fact that Arthur is treating him like he wants him.   
  
"Push your legs under you. There you go." Arthur commanded softly and it was easier when Arthur was telling him to do things, because then he could just do them and not think about it.  
  
Arthur rested his hand at the base of his spine and stroked his thumb over Eames' hole like people just _did_ that, and Eames wasn't sure if it was supposed to be feeling good, or weird, or bad, or what. Mostly it was just sort of...   
  
"You don't like this?" Arthur asked, and it sort of felt good, but not how things normally felt good. It was a weird, sideways sort of maybe-could-be-good. "Or just not used to it."  
  
"I'm not the blushing virgin." Eames grumbled and Arthur palmed over one cheek and Eames tensed, because he was inexperienced here. He thought. If he could suck Arthur off it'd be better. He knew how to do that.  
  
"But you haven't done this before." Arthur said and he didn't sound gleeful, because Arthur didn't do gleeful, but he sounded like what gleeful would sound like if Arthur could sound like glee. Arthur-glee. Fuck, what was wrong with him? This was going to be good. He just needed to not fuck up. "And you were blushing."  
  
"You want that?" Eames pushed himself up on his bound wrists and elbows and turned to look back. "Oh sir, I just...I-I don't know what you're doing." Eames tried to flutter his eyelashes, but he's fairly sure he just ended up blinking a lot (and what's the difference? Seriously?) "Please be gentle."

 

####  [Re: Rule Ten (Part 182)](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3982762#cmt3982762)

on 2011-03-21 02:22 am (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

More Tomorrow  
  
Arthur leans forward, without a word, opens his mouth and _bites_ down on the side of his arse he's not manhandling and Eames just jerks like a live-wire because it's a slow, deliberate application of pressure and heat and it's not like when he was young and getting in scraps and some gap-toothed ginger kid had nearly taken his ear off, which had just been sharp pain and anger. This is Arthur, head tilted, pressing his teeth in like he means to keep them there, sucking a mark into his skin and Eames might be twisted somehow because instead of trying to yank away, he shoves up closer to it.  
  
  
"No." Arthur says, "I won't be. But I will be careful, and nothing will hurt that I don't want to hurt, and nothing at all will harm you."  
  
"I haven't. Though. With the." Eames shifts and the mark throbs and he wants to touch it, but he can't, in this position and Arthur runs damp fingers over it. "I haven't."  
  
"I know." Arthur says and runs his hands down Eames legs. "You haven't been fucked and you haven't fucked anyone. And I'm greedy, and you're mine, so I'm going to take both."  
  
"Tonight?" Eames shifts, and Arthur hoists Eames up by the armpits until he's kneeling in front of him, staring at the wall and Arthur is petting him, running his hands over Eames skin like he needs to make sure it's all there.  
  
"Yes." Arthur says, scratching through Eames hair. "I want to take every first I can have. So here's what I'm going to do tonight. Are you listening?"  
  
Eames nods.  
  
"First I'm going to lay you on your back and secure your hands and then I will want you to struggle. Hard. Hard as you can, just to make sure you can't get them free. I'm going to sit on top of you so I can feel it," Arthur runs his hand over Eames' stomach and kisses along his shoulder. "And when you're satisfied you can't move, that I really do have you, that I've _captured_ you, as you put it, I'm going to kiss you."  
  
"A real kiss?" Eames asks.  
  
"Yes." Arthur gets distracted, or maybe decides to have a brief interlude, with Eames ear, and Eames has never thought of ears much, but when Arthur teeth are carefully scraping down the lobe and just below it, then he does. Then ears are very important, suddenly and he leans back against Arthur, who is warm and somewhere everywhere and has his arms wrapped around him like Eames can just go limp, now and everything will be fine.  
  
"And then," Arthur says, resting his chin on Eames' shoulder, hand wrapping around Eames cock. "I get to take this and show you why waiting for me wasn't a requirement, I am pleased about it." Arthur jerks him roughly and Eames pushing into Arthur's fist. "And I'll ride you until you come, because I want to. I want you on you back where I can play with you."  
  
Eames is having trouble breathing, especially when Arthur carefully wraps his hand around his neck. Not squeezing, just resting it over his throat, fingers pressing into his pulse and he can nearly feel Arthur staring at him.  
  
"But-" Eames licks his lips. "I thought. Uh. I mean. It's just in all the...uh. Research. It was about you know. Subs getting fucked. Tops fucking."  
  
Arthur nips at his neck. "Getting fucked feels good. And you're mine. It doesn't matter if your cock is in my ass, it doesn't matter, even, if I'm on my back with my legs around your waist while you're doing it. I would take you by the throat, like I am right now, and I would control how fast you went. You need to learn, tonight, that it doesn't matter what I have you doing. You're still mine."  
  
Eames fingers twitch in front of him and Arthur rubs his thumb over the head of his dick and around the edge of the foreskin.   
  
"Prove it, then." Eames says and Arthur gives him a squeeze, one around his throat, the other around his cock, before getting up.  
  
"On you back, hands above your head."  
  
Eames goes.

 

####  [Re: Rule Ten (Part 183)](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=3995050#cmt3995050)

on 2011-03-21 09:36 pm (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

if you followed me on Twitter, you'd get to hear about my shirtless bagel adventures.  
  
Arthur locks him in, no slack, hands attached to the headboard like they belong there. With rope, Eames thinks, so he doesn't scratch the wood. Arthur has a good bed, a big bed, a heavy hardwood bed, Eames isn't going to budge it, certainly not going to break the headboard.   
  
He waits until Arthur's finished off the knot and then watches as Arthur tests it himself before settling himself down on Eames stomach.  
  
Arthur turns and lifts Eames legs, gets him by the knees and tugs them up until all Eames can feel is the stretch and Arthur looks down at him a moment, eyes tracking around like he just wants to eat Eames raw. And Eames breathes under him, because he's got a good view himself, and Arthur is a man in his prime. Eames tilts his head, because he's never gotten to really, well, _stare_ at a guy's dick in person before. Like, porn will have them, and they'll be there, but it's terrible filming and Arthur's is right there, red and longer than his. Not just a bit longer, but he's got a few inches on Eames. But it doesn't have the kind of girth Eames does, and he read a thing once that said it was girth that mattered, not length. Well. For women. His dick couldn't be that bad if Arthur wanted to fuck it, right?  
  
But it was kind of elegant, he thought, maybe. If dicks could be elegant. When they weren't ridiculous. Circumcised, like far too Americans, and a pointed tip and Eames wanted to suck it. He wanted Arthur to scoot closer and fuck into his mouth for a bit. He couldn't get it all down, no way, but he'd give the bit he could manage one hell of a ride.  
  
"You look far too serious for a naked tied up man." Arthur says, and bends down, hands braced on Eames chest, and school his face into his Very Serious Business scowl. "Serious time. We must be very, very serious."  
  
Eames laughs and Arthur smiles over him and then his fingers are going clawlike and digging into his sides and Arthur is a _dirty cheat_ because Eames is ticklish fucking everywhere and he can't writhe away, and so he just tosses under Arthur and it's not like he wants to get away, and it's not like he's going to piss himself when he's this hard, but there's _mean_ and then there's tickling a man while he's tied up and expecting fucking.  
  
"Stop it-" He gasps and he can't get free, and Arthur's fingers immediately go soft and he's stroking instead of prodding and Eames gasps for air and knocks against Arthur with his hip. "Jesus, Arthur."  
  
"I like it when you're breathless." Arthur says, nudging against his jaw. "Keep smiling. I like it when you're breathless and smiling."  
  
Eames feels dumb, because grinning like an idiot isn't sexy, except Arthur makes little "rawr" sounds when Eames tries to hide his face again and there he goes. Smiling like he's mental and Arthur pets him for it. "We're playing. Remember?"  
  
"Playing's not usually naked, is all I'm saying."  
  
Arthur's fingers move across Eames' chest, tracing the individual muscles like's he's done however many times with his eyes. "It can be. Sometimes it'll be intense, yes. Sometimes we'll both get so into it we'll forget what breathing is. Or you might. I can remember because I can inhale like I want you in my lungs, and exhale like I want to make you shiver."  
  
Eames does. Right there. And Arthur kisses his neck. "But today's the first day you get to be mine. That I get to have you. I want today to be fun. I want you to be relaxed."  
  
Eames holds on to the remaining embarrassment for another tense few seconds before slowly, carefully, relaxing under Arthur and Arthur cards through his hair. "There's my good boy."  
  
He picks up the bottle of lube, the top clacks off and it drizzles into Arthur's hand, clear and shiny and Eames wants to see Arthur fingering himself. He wants Arthur to lean close and get himself ready, and Eames wants to be able to move his hands, to tangle his fingers with Arthur's and Arthur puts the lube down, drops plop onto Eames chest, and he doesn't care. It doesn't matter. He wants to _see_.  
  
He leans forward and puts his hand over Eames eyes and Eames jerks. "I want to see, what are you doing? I want to see."

 

####  [Re: Rule Ten (Part 184)](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=4003498#cmt4003498)

on 2011-03-21 11:38 pm (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

SOMETHING WENT WRONG. JUST GO WITH IT.  
  
"No," Arthur says, and sucks on his ear and Eames wants to see. He can hear it, the wet sucking noise from Arthur's mouth and the dripping, fleshy noise of him...and Eames wants to see.  
  
"Shh," Arthur says. "Eventually. But right now you just have to feel. I just want you to feel this for a bit."  
  
Eames struggles to pull his hands down, but they don't move, so he turns and sucks a mark into Arthur's throat, he doesn't care where. Hopefully to high to be hidden by any of his shirt collars, that would show him.  
  
Arthur doesn't offer any more commentary, just leans back and rips a condom open with his teeth and one non-slippery hand, rolling it on Eames and Eames frowns.  
  
"Why do we-"  
  
"We'll talk about it later." Arthur says. "Right now we're doing it this way."  
  
He slicks Eames up, hand tight and warm and slick and Eames can't even feel it properly. He wants it like it was before. Skin on skin. Talk about it later, fuck yes they will.  
  
And then, fuck, then Arthur leans forward and they're kissing. Really kissing, proper kissing, better than before because he can kiss back, and Arthur isn't...isn't touching him like he's sorry, or whatever. Or the two of them holding back. Kissing like they haven't for an entire fucking year, maybe not ever. Certainly not since Eames last birthday, anyways, and then he had to hold still.  
  
And then Arthur is lowering himself and mouths are one thing. Mouths are hot and wet and there are tongues and lips and suction, but that was nothing. That wasn't as tight or hot or soft and Eames is glad for a moment, that he can't see, and he forgot if he closed his eyes or Arthur's still holding his head down, because he the feeling, the feeling of Arthur slid down on top of him shucks every single other bit of information from his mind. down, shoves them back into the mattress and bites his arm, because he's going to go off embarrassingly quickly and it's going to be stupid and it's not his fault he's eighteen, it's not.  
  
Eames has no idea what kind of noise gets punches out of him, but Arthur is smirking down at him and his fucking dimples come out when he smirks, so Eames doesn't even know what to feel.  
  
Eames gasps for air because he can't come right this second. But he could. He could. Arthur is staring at him, thighs tensed and flushed, hands wrapped over Eames ribs, and the one hand slips down onto the sheets, and even that is hot, because Arthur had been fingering himself with that hand.  
  
"Don't move." Arthur says. "Keep your hips still."  
  
"You're not-" Eames struggles for words, but they drip out of his head and he ends up staring mutely as Arthur rises up, easily, slowly and god, fuck friction. Heat, clinging heat, friction and it's tight and he jerks up into it because he cannot help himself.  
  
Arthur wraps his legs around so Eames hips are as good as pinned. "I don't need to make this good for you too." Arthur says and then he does these little hiccuping twitches which his body. "I can just use the head of your nice, fat cock to rub against..." His hair is coming undone and Eames wants to lick it. He wants to lick Arthur's hair, and that's love, right? "And you won't get any friction."  
  
Eames doesn't know what's going on, really, other than he's going to probably fall apart at the seams, and then where will Arthur be? Hmm?  
  
"Arthur." He begs and Arthur keeps doing the thing twitches that aren't enough, they aren't even nearly enough and Eames can't move, except for maybe a sort of helpless rocking. 'Arthur, you have to. I need to. You said to ask."  
  
"Shh." Arthur rocks his head back.  
  
"You." Eames can't get enough air. Or saliva. Or braincells. "You said. If I needed. Rule ten."  
  
"You don't need to get off. You just want to get off."  
  
Eames turns his head into his elbow and after a movement Arthur starts fucking down properly, sliding, slippery friction and Eames keeps his hips still.

 

####  [Re: Rule Ten (Part 185)](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=4006058#cmt4006058)

on 2011-03-22 01:10 am (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

I lost the entirely of this part to LJ. More Tomorrow  
  
"That's good. That's perfect." Arthur says, and Eames knows it's dumb to feel so thrilled about it, because, you know, people say that sort of stuff during sex. But Arthur means it and Eames lifts his legs up, pulls up from his stomach, so his hips have to stay down and Arthur pets him, kisses where he feels like and Eames just needs to breathe. But it feels good. Feels better than he knows how to think.  
  
"Arthur," He says and had nothing to follow it up with. He thinks that's all he meant to say.  
  
"I'm here." Arthur says and goes fucking _still_ again, and Eames wants to shove up into the heat. He wants to go until he gets off, until they're both sticky and slippery and sweaty and worse than any porn film, any porn film _ever_ , but he holds still and it hurts. His balls ache with it, and Arthur rubs his thumb along the relief of Eames abdomen. "It gets hard after this. So you can come when you feel like, but the sooner you do, the sooner I'm going to make it difficult."  
  
Eames looks at him and Arthur is concentrating, Eames has every single ounce of Arthur's attention. Every particle in Arthur's universe is revolving around Eames, and the reverse is true. But it always was.  
  
"When I'm done riding you, I'm going to turn you over, and I'm going to spank you."  
  
"Why?" Eames asks and his stomach hurts with the strain but he's going to keep his hips _down_ damn it. And left to his own devices they aren't going to.   
  
"I want to." Arthur rises and falls again, begins moving in steady, clenching waves and Eames thinks, someday, he'll be good enough at this. Someday, if Arthur keeps him, (favorite thing, he said. Arthur takes good care of his things) Eames will be good enough at this that Arthur will let him move. Someday he'll be the best in bed Arthur's ever seen and then Arthur really won't let him go. Eames is going to learn everything you can know and Arthur won't want anyone else. When Eames is done.  
  
"Okay." Eames says.  
  
"I'll spank you until you're cognizant and then lose yourself again. Then I'm going to get you ready for me to fuck you." Arthur says and Eames isn't sure this is dirty talk, because Arthur outlining his plans like he does all of his plans. They could be going to the zoo to see the otters for all Arthur's inflection changes. Except his voice. Is doing the thing. The thing when it dips down and grabs you by the feet.  
  
"And I just need to...?"   
  
"Do as I tell you. And enjoy yourself." Arthur says and Eames nods, letting Arthur mop the sweat off his head.  
  
Eames thinks this is why porn is dumb. Watching that is nothing like this. The wet, sloppy sound of it, the tart and musky _smell_ of it, the tiny noises Arthur gives him like gifts, the embarrassingly loud noises Arthur wrings out of him, in return. It's nothing compared to the heat, and the friction, and Arthur looking at Eames like Eames is worth looking at like that.   
  
Eames squeezes his eyes shut and he tries to focus on what it felt like to be on the couch, with Arthur's smell and Arthur's touch and Arthur's voice carefully detailing what this _meant_ with his clinical words, but knowing tone of voice. He'd always stay just a second longer. Just a second longer.  
  
"That's good." Arthur breathes and he's riding Eames like he does this all the time. Thigh flexing and sweaty trickling down his navel. "You waited and now I'm going to make it worth it."  
  
Eames wants to touch Arthur so badly, but he doesn't ask Arthur to let him go. Just strains at the rope and Arthur watches it.  
  
It's all for Eames. The little furrow between his eyebrows. The dimple-smirk, the dark eyes, the lube-slippery hand that keep sliding off his body and back onto the bed, leaving shiny smears on their skin, the thin dribbling of pre-come dripping down Arthur's dick. That's for Eames. All of this is for him. And yeah, he's tied up, and ever single inch of him is for Arthur to do with as he likes, but he gets this in return. He gets Arthur swearing softly and fucking himself in earnest and Eames can't.  
  
Arthur kisses him when Eames hits his feet to the bed and pushes up. Eames doesn't know. Doesn't. He. Arthur. He has Arthur. Arthur will take care of everything.

 

####  [Re: Rule Ten (Part 186)](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=4016810#cmt4016810)

on 2011-03-24 12:46 am (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

Arthur doesn't start hitting him right away, like Eames thought he might. Instead he took Eames hands down and rolled him over and ran a hand down his back and Eames pushes up into it, relaxed and blinking as Arthur cards his hand into his hair and twists Eames head and kisses him.   
  
Eames melts into Arthur, curls and wraps around Arthur. The cuffs are still around his wrists, not heavy, not exactly. But he can feel them, but not as much as he can feel Arthur lips, feel Arthur's fingers against his scalp and his elbow pressing down on his back and everything about him was warm and liquid and smooth.   
  
Eames nuzzled closer, and Arthur kept kissing him, tongue and teeth and cutting away briefly to whisper nonsense to him and Eames was too happy to listen to anything but the tone of his voice. It was rumbling and low and Eames shoved closer next to it and the kissing and petting.  
  
"You could fuck me." Eames said when his lips were sore and chapped and he was getting hard again and he didn't know what he wanted, just that he didn't want Arthur any farther away than his own skin. "Please, come on."   
  
"Shh," Arthur says and rolls him over and curls around him. "I'll fuck you when you're begging for it."  
  
Eames nuzzles that little bit closer. Arthur grips his face and kisses him again, kisses him in delighted little pecks, "Don't be nervous."  
  
"I'm not nervous." Eames says. "I'm _not_. Why should I be nervous about sex"?"  
  
Arthur pets him from scalp to arse, soothes his knuckles down Eames ticklish ribs and slides down, pushes Eames down on the mattress, stops and moment and kisses down his spine. "I want to do everything humanly possible to you. You waited for me."  
  
Eames pushes himself up on his elbows and twists to watch Arthur spread his legs and for a moment Arthur isn't, well, he isn't. Intense. He's pulled back, sunk back into himself a moment and Eames blinks. "Did you think I wouldn't?"  
  
"No," Arthur says. "No, not that. I knew you'd wait. I didn't even have to ask. I wouldn't have asked."  
  
"No. You wouldn't." Eames replies, "You wouldn't ask me, and I hated that. I hated that you wouldn't ask."  
  
Arthur stares at him, and then bends to kiss the small of Eames back. "I won't ask now. I'm telling you. You're mine."  
  
Eames shudders. "You're just telling me? You think you can do that?"  
  
Arthur shutters away a moment and then there's a fire blazing out of his eyes and Eames can feel it. He firms his jaw and rises up. He's been good. He's been so good. He's been good for a year and he's been good for his life and right now he hates it. He hates it so much he could spit, and then, before, maybe they're doing this backwards. Before he was Arthur's good boy, and now he's going to make Arthur fucking work for it.   
  
"You think can just tell me what to do?" Eames closes his hands into fists and Arthur's fingers go tense on his thighs. "What gives you the right? You've been telling me no, not yet for a year, and now you say _go_ and I'm supposed to just whimper and take it." Eames turns and glares at him. "Love it?"  
  
Arthur doesn't get the guilty look. Eames would stomp right out of this room if Arthur had gotten his guilty look. Arthur cocks his head and strokes his hands down Eames legs. "Yes. You waited, didn't you? You would be begging for my cock morning noon and night if you had it your way."  
  
Eames spins around and Arthur grabs his fist before Eames even realizes he's throwing a punch. Arthur wraps his fingers around Eames' fist. "And if we had it your way we'd never fuck at all."  
  
Arthur doesn't say anything. "You need me to prove I want it? Is that what this is about? Have you been feeling neglected?" He puts his hand on Eames' stomach and Eames pulls away.  
  
"Don't think you could have waited this long if you wanted me." Eames says. "You couldn't have had me here, everyday, and not..." Eames shoves Arthur away and Arthur doesn't let him go, doesn't give Eames an inch of space.  
  
"You think it was easy?"  
  
"Wasn't it?" Eames asks and then they're grappling, fighting in earnest, and the bed creaks and Eames elbows hit the wall and Arthur is grim faced and relentless, trapping Eames down on his chin, arms and legs held down and Eames flexes Arthur's hold doesn't change.

 

####  [Re: Rule Ten (Part 187)](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=4019114#cmt4019114)

on 2011-03-24 01:40 am (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

[**cherrybina**](http://cherrybina.livejournal.com/) made cookies, and in reward, rimming happens. EVERYONE SHOULD MAKE COOKIES.  
  
"I wanted you." Arthur says, voice tight and hold tighter and he lets Eames struggle, but he's immovable.   
  
"Well maybe you can't fucking have it anymore." Eames struggles and he doesn't mean it. He wants Arthur to fuck him. But it's a release of a different sort of tension. "Maybe I don't think you actually want my ass, yeah?"  
  
Arthur squeezes him, and Eames loses his breath. Arthur sucks a warm kiss to the back of Eames neck.   
  
Eames struggles again.  
  
"It's not how much I want your ass, here, Eames. It's about how much you want me in it." Arthur says. "There's more I can do to you than just fuck you, you know. Now, I can either hold you like this and tell you want I want to do, or I can let you go, you wrap you hands around the headboard, and I'll do them."  
  
Eames breathed and retained his grip and Eames honestly thought Arthur might just hang on forever.  
  
Eames goes limp and Arthur doesn't detach himself, but he lets Eames grab the headboard as he sinks back down his body.  
  
"Legs up. On your knees." Arthur says and Eames goes, and Arthur pushes them apart until he's sinking.  
  
"I will do this for as long as you can keep this position." Arthur says, nonsensically, before he's bending down and Eames jerks.  
  
Arthur's thumb had felt a bit over-personal and strange, but that's his. That's his mouth. And Eames isn't dumb, he knows people do this, he's _seen_ it, but that's nothing. He doesn't even have time to really think about the concept before Arthur is holding his thighs apart and twisting his tongue in these tight, maddening little circles.  
  
It's like it doesn't even have time to feel good. Or, he can't even recognize that what he's feeling because his hips just jerk back of their own accord, and Arthur just holds him still, hot air blowing over him and _fuck_. There's not enough space for one thing to feel like that. It shudders up his spine, warm and tingling and then Arthur _sucks_. Just fits his lips around his hole and sucks and Eames nearly falls down.  
  
"Arthur. Fuck you can't-" Eames leg jerks out from under him and he quickly slides it back before Arthur stops. "Arthur I can't. Jesus."  
  
Arthur pulls back and Eames hears the click of the lube bottle again, before Arthur's running a cool, slim finger where his _mouth_ just was. Where he tongue was just fucking against him.   
  
"Arthur." He tries again.  
  
"Do you believe I want you yet?" Arthur says and then he's back down, finger sliding in and that feels weird, sort of...he shifts. It feels weird, but not as weird as doing it to himself was. For one it's Arthur's finger, for another it's sort of...stroking, instead of prodding around like he had. Eames settles back into it, resting his head between his hands and breathing.  
  
Then Arthur goes back to licking around his finger and Eames just falls into it, and drops his head, hands clenching around the slick wood under his palms.  
  
He loses track of time, just knows at some point he's gotten loose enough for Arthur to fuck him in earnest with more fingers and he feels...he doesn't know. Open. Sloppy. Wet. And he doesn't know how Arthur could stay in any kind of control like this because he just wants to show his belly and shove into it the sticky-slick sounds coming from behind him.  
  
"I'm just going to do this for awhile." Arthur says, quietly, after what already feels like far, far too long, considering he's shaking and he just wants to fuck his dick up against the sheets, or Arthur's fist. Eames fucks the air, instead, body tingling and thoughts dripping out of his ears like hot wax.

\---

  
  
Arthur sits cross legged on the bed, looking up Eames' shivering body and contenting himself with three fingers, stroking over that one little bump instead Eames body. Every time he hits it Eames shakes a little harder. Eames has been making tiny, little whining noises every so often that Arthur wants to see if he can turn into full-on screaming, or whimpering, or anything, really.

 

####  [Re: Rule Ten (Part 188)](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=4021674#cmt4021674)

on 2011-03-24 01:56 am (UTC)

Posted by  [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

More Tomorrow  
  
He wants to know what happens if he just keeps fingering Eames dripping hole, how long before Eames just collapses onto the bed and Arthur has to roll him over. He's already sweating and shivering. It shouldn't be much longer, Arthur doesn't think.  
  
He doesn't mind how long it takes, from this point. He wants to see. The important part is that he see Eames drift apart at some, base level. He can wait, nothing else matters, for the moment except the next step of the plan.   
  
He drop his eyes back to Eames reddened hole, how it clings to his fingers, like it doesn't want them to go. Eames is making choked off noises now, hands clenched to white-knuckled frustration on the headboard and Arthur is proud of him, and he's never been proud of a partner before. Pleased, of course, but not _proud_. He likes how it tinges the world honey-colored, makes every movement feel that much warmer, that much more important.  
  
"Arthur." Eames breathes out and Arthur attention snaps, easily to Eames head, bent at the neck and Eames shoulders. "Arthur."  
  
"Do you want more?" Arthur asks, and he's not ready to give any more yet. He wants Eames limp on the bed first. Then he'll fuck him, but not until Eames falls.  
  
"Arthur." Eames says, like that's an answer and Arthur removes his fingers, smiling at Eames broken-hearted whine and then bending to fucking his tongue into the loose curl of Eames ass. It open around his tongue, easily and Eames' hand slips off the headboard. Arthur pulls back and lands a solid smack down and Eames jerks up, hands on the wall. Arthur lands another hits and Eames turns and Arthur wraps an arm around Eames hips so he can keep hitting that one spot until Eames gets the program and gets back into position. But Eames isn't falling in line, instead kneeling up and his breath catching as every hit lands.  
  
Of fuck, he _likes_ being spanked. He actually makes a protesting noise when Arthur stops.  
  
"Knew you'd be a slut for me." Arthur says and he meant to tan Eames ass tonight. He just got absorbed in how his hole had clung to his fingers, how his body has shaken at the end of his tongue. He'd gotten distracted by Eames sudden mood change, going from affectionate and snuggly, to aggressive and furious. Nothing new, not really, but it had been distracting. He'd expected something like it, that's why he'd undone the rope, so Eames would have the freedom to move and let Arthur wrestle him back down.  
  
"Fuck, you fuck-" Eames gripped the bedsheets as Arthur landed another blow. "I fucking-"  
  
"Use your grown-up words, Eames." Arthur chastises and Eames bends double and he's still pushing up to meet Arthur's slaps, shaking with them, breathing harsh and every muscle on his body standing out in curving relief.  
  
"Make me." Eames struggles and Arthur stops, petting over the hot skin and loving the texture of it. He can spank Eames now. He can grab him by the neck and turn him over his knee when he's a brat. Eames can _be_ a brat, now. Arthur loves the moment when Eames just lets himself be a snot-nosed little bastard because that means, for a moment, he's comfortable enough knowing that Arthur isn't going to shut him out of the house.   
  
"Make you use your grown up words?" Arthur asks.  
  
"Make me. Make me." Eames swallows and then turns and shoves his head right into Arthur's stomach. Arthur rests his back against the wall and Eames is back to being affectionate and clinging so Arthur rubs over his shoulder, his back.  
  
"Make you what, Eames?"  
  
"Make me good." Eames whispers, and if Arthur wasn't hawk-focused on every single exhale Eames made, every twitch and shudder, he might have missed the soft plea. Eames covers his face and is so tense for a moment Arthur wonders if he'll just go to shards, right there, on the bed.  
  
"You are good." Arthur says. "More importantly, you're mine."  
  
Eames pushes up, eye to eye with Arthur. "Then fuck me."

####  [Re: Rule Ten (Part 189)](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=4035242#cmt4035242)

on 2011-03-25 12:43 am (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

More Tomorrow  
  
"You don't get to decide when I do that." Arthur says and grabs the heavy steel rings latched to Eames cuffs and yanks him off balance. "Right now I'm enjoying myself. You want me to enjoy myself, don't you?"  
  
Eames has his arms spread wide and he pushes his head against Arthur's stomach again. "It doesn't _count_." Eames mumbles and then rests his head down on Arthur's thigh, his back a terrible, beautiful, arch of supplication. "It doesn't count if you don't fuck me. I need." Eames fingers open, hands curled upward. "I need you to fuck me. I need it. I need it and I'm asking, and I don't want it, I _need_ it. So. So you have to."   
  
"Why do you need it?" Arthur asks and when he removes his hands, Eames keeps his arms where they are. "What story are you telling yourself?" He asks, and it's not his phrase, they aren't his words, but he's not good at getting into his partner's heads.   
  
"It doesn't count if you don't fuck me. It doesn't count, it doesn't _count_." Eames kisses Arthur's leg. "It needs to be weird, and it needs to be uncomfortable or it doesn't _count_. You're just. You're making it. Easy." Eames says and looks up and Arthur looks down at him. "What do you want me to say? I'll say it. Fuck your boy, sir?" Eames tries and he's called Arthur sir. Mostly to be a tease, about it, never seriously. It's very nearly earnest this time. "Fuck your boy until he's good, sir."  
  
Eames wants Arthur to push him? Arthur will. Arthur will push, not nearly to the edge, but to unexplored territory, at least.   
  
Arthur arranges Eames as it pleases him, on his back, legs open and feet square on the sheets, arms outstretched to either side. Eames is blinking at him, palms still upwards, fingers relaxed and he's found some sort of headspace he likes, in that gesture, Arthur thinks.   
  
He replaces his fingers, makes sure Eames is still wet and loose. He's relaxed, if nothing else, and he just rolls with the intrusion, not an inch embarrassed.   
  
"Please." Eames says, and then rubs his body along the sheets again, maybe just because he likes the feel of them.  
  
"You don't come." Arthur says. "You don't need that. No matter how pretty you are when you beg for it, you're not coming until I feel like it."  
  
Eames nods and Arthur slaps his hip. "Lift up."  
  
Eames pushes up and Arthur rubs his hand over the overheated and red skin of Eames freshly spanked (not spanked enough, not nearly. Another day. He has many days.) ass and pets it a moment, let's Eames keep the position.  
  
Eames doesn't comment, just watches him. Like he always has. Arthur keeps touching. Fingers on Eames knee, lips on his nipple, hands catching the incline of his torso. He pauses a moment and then gets up, moves, and sits beside Eames. Places a foot on his chest and Eames looks at it and then just whines, hands spasming and hips jerking upwards. "Let me. Let me."  
  
"Do you want to kiss it? Is that what you think about when you look at my feet?"  
  
Eames' breath is quick and labored under his foot and he curls his toes against Eames chest hair and Eames bites his lip. "Do you think about kneeling at my feet, naked, and me lifting my foot to play with your cock?"  
  
Eames looks overwhelmed and Arthur just keeps his foot there, a steady pressure and Eames just keeps staring at it.  
  
"Do you think about being good enough that you can sleep at the end of my bed, keeping my feet warm?"  
  
Eames nods.  
  
Arthur twists and lifts his foot so the sole is near Eames mouth. "Kiss my foot."  
  
Eames doesn't give it a nervous little peck. He french kisses Arthur's instep and it tickles and it's wet and it feels strange, but the _noises_ Those are hot. Arthur could keep those in cages like birds.  
  
Arthur pulls back after a moment and Eames keeps position, keeps staring, lips wet and Arthur doesn't give in to the urge to whip his foot off, and instead retrieves the second condom and rolls it on in full view. Slicks his cock up and Eames' breathing slows, calms and he's still tilting up. Still waiting.   
  
"If you're going to come you need to tell me." Arthur says, back on the bed. "No matter how much you don't want to."  
  
"Yes." Eames breathes, and Arthur slides it on the exhale.

 

####  [Re: Rule Ten (Part 190)](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=4052650#cmt4052650)

on 2011-03-26 03:34 am (UTC)

Posted by  [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

Editing this is going to be a bitch if for no other reason then I'm pretty sure the tone completely changes for update to update. And the tense changes. And the typos. (Future, 2016 me: YOU JUST GIVE UP, PAST ME. THAT'S WHAT HAPPENS. YOU JUST GIVE UP)  
  
Eames held position even when Arthur was pressed all the way in. Arthur carefully took Eames legs and wrapped them around himself. He expected Eames to grip on. And Eames did tighten, but gently. Respectfully. Over his hips. Arthur bent over him and, on a completely shallow note, this was his favorite.  
  
And he knows Eames changed himself for Arthur. Arthur holds completely still a moment, staring down at the familiar topography of Eames' body.   
  
He changed himself for Arthur. If Arthur had liked thin, waifish boys, Eames would have done that. Eames is inherently changeable. Arthur has seen him in environments outside of his own influence. He has seen Eames preforming for audiences besides himself. His entire body shifts and changes, losing and gaining attention as he wishes.   
  
He crouches down in on himself around authority, teachers, shoulders up and peek turned inwards, and they don't see him. He draws himself huge, shoulders squared, and fists curled, chin up and menacing when classmates pull too close. Then he turns loose, open palmed and splayed legs and easy smiles and assured in Ariadne's company. At the mention of his family, he curls up in on himself and tucks his arms in and crosses his legs, only the drop[ sort of open, splayed everywhere, comfortable and authoritative when near Robert goddam _Fischer_ (how did that even happen, Arthur doesn't know).   
  
But Eames is like this, now. It makes it happy to be like this, and Arthur trails his hand over Eames relaxed belly. Up Eames long, exposed throat, Eames who is now soft and pliable and spilling willingness out of every pore. It comforts him, knowing that inside there- peeking out in gaps and shadows- is something solid and untouchable that will remain even if Arthur's influences presses too deep and too close. It comforts him to know that something will push back. He's willing to put his hands on Eames and leave fingerprints, but not take him and pour him into a prepared mold.  
  
"You're mine." Arthur says, again, because right now? Eames is. Everything about his posture and expression and being says so. "No one else."  
  
"I don't want anyone else.  
  
"I don't care if you do." Arthur pulls out slowly, so Eames feels it. "No one else."  
  
Eames squeezes his eyes shut. He thrusts back up to try and meet with Arthur's, and it's off-beat. Arthur doesn't care. Arthur can't tell him he's possessive. That he takes care of his things, but they are his things. That he's never minded if Eames used them, because Eames had inherently, somehow, belonged.   
  
He can't tell him that he wants to sneak himself into Eames' tattoos. He can't say that he wants to wrap a collar around Eames' neck, to lock one there and have him wear it forever. Can't say that he wants Eames at the end of his bed, or in his arms until they both creak when they move. Can't say that he can't help it. He can't not do a thing all the way through, when he does it. And if he can have Eames, now, then he's going to have him until, maybe, Eames hates him for it, a little bit. Arthur can't say it, not because he doesn't think Eames wants to hear it, but because it just won't come out. So he just fucks him like he was saying those things. Like he could communicate how much he wanted Eames, communicate it well enough for Eames to finally get it.  
  
Arthur moves his hand down to the base of Eames dick, wraps his hand firmly around, not stroking or squeezing, just holding on. He moves his hips, feeling Eames ankles digging into his back, keeping it slow, and steady. Distantly, he's aware that it feels good, but far more vital is Eames. Eames is struggling to breathe and his cock is leaking, dripping down over Arthur's fingers.  
  
"Tell me what it feels like."   
  
Eames licks his lips and tries to speak, but just croaks a moment, mouth too dry. So Arthur bends down and licks into his mouth. When he rises, it doesn't appear to have helped.   
  
Eames hands flicker closed, body tensing, a flicker of someone else Eames could be. It shudders out of him just as quickly. "It's good."  
  
"Lots of things are good, Eames."

 

####  [Re: Rule Ten (Part 191)](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=4053162#cmt4053162)

on 2011-03-26 03:44 am (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

More later. Taking the weekend off.  
  
Arthur has missed this. This, where nothing else matters but what he's doing. Where nothing else even enters his head but things to do with Eames. Soon even those niggling little considerations of the future and the past and all the reasons he shouldn't be fucking his boy into the mattress will burn away and he will focus completely on the moment.   
  
He slows down again. Eames rises up and Arthur fucks him down, holds his hips still with one hand and turns Eames face back to him, swearing pre-come on his cheek.  
  
"Tell me what it feels like." Arthur says, because he wants to know and it doesn't matter that Eames is red-faced and sweating, struggling to form words. He wants to know. "Do you feel open? Do you feel vulnerable? Tell me. Sloppy? Wet? Tell me."  
  
"Arthur. I can't."  
  
"What do you feel like when I'm holding you down and fucking you open for the first time? What does it feel like? Does it hurt? Did I hurt you?"  
  
"No." Eames struggles for air, again. It hitches down his throat, and Arthur fancies he can see it travel to his lungs. Arthur moves again, likes how hard it is for Eames to focus. Likes that Eames is drifting apart beneath him, because it's beautiful. He's going to takes Eames apart and clean all the pieces, before putting everything exactly back where he found it.   
  
Even if it isn't the cleanest way, even if it isn't the neatest, because it's the best way. Eames should be like a book. Eames should have jagged edges and pieces that break your heart if you think about them. Eames should be a man of many textures.  
  
"What does it feel like?" Arthur insists. "Do you want to come?"  
  
"Yes." Eames thrusts up, cock dragging over Arthur stomach and Arthur shoves both his hand around Eames hips and keeps them down on the bed.  
  
"Am I stretching you?" Arthur can't help but looking down at Eames skin clinging to his dick. He can't feel it. Or he can. If he thought about it. But the way Eames body is stretched around him is more satisfying than the heat of his ass, or the way his dick is being squeezed, at the moment. "Tell me."  
  
"Like." Eames starts and ends all at once. "Good. Like I'm. Good." Eames says and he tilts his head to look at Arthur. "Like you think I'm. Good."  
  
Arthur fits his hand on the mattress, right under Eames arm and fucks him in short, staccato bursts. Fucks him like he means it, because he does, sincerely. Fucks him and Eames writhes and it's beautiful. It's gorgeous and Arthur doesn't want him to stop. He wants Eames to writhe like that for the rest of the night, at the absolute minimum. Arthur grabs Eames by the balls, tug them away from his body when Eames tries, desperately to communicate he's too close. Arthur slows himself, waits it out.  
  
Someday, probably, they'll both get into a headspace where neither one of them cares about coming, anymore, and they'll fuck until their bodies just revolt and go without any sort of warning and maybe. Maybe they won't even notice. And Eames will pass out and Arthur will take care of him. Which is sort of like passing out.   
  
But now Eames is begging permission and Arthur doesn't want to give it, yet. He wants to keep doing this. He wants Eames to keep feeling like he's good. He wants Eames to always feel like that. That's what he wants.

 

####  [Re: Rule Ten (Part 192)](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=4091050#cmt4091050)

on 2011-03-28 10:54 pm (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

Apparently all I do with a weekend of not thinking about this is think about work. Let's not do that again.  
  
"Not yet." He says, when Eames asks again, body arched up against Arthur, until he's rolled back on his shoulders. "You can wait just a bit longer, can't you?"  
  
Eames shakes his head, sloppily. Arthur smooths his hands down Eames arms and wraps his fingers around the cuffs, then realizes he hates the feel of them. He gets Eames wrists free, replaced them with his hands and Eames is slick with sweat, lips bitten and dry and voice scratchy with how much need he's stuffed into each syllable.  
  
"You can't wait just a little bit longer? Not for me?" Arthur asks and Eames goes still, then relaxes, slowly, body flat on the bed and even his legs just drop off, spread wide, and the only tense thing he has is his cock, dribbling and red and Arthur thinks if he touches it, if he touches it even a little bit, Eames will come.  
  
So he doesn't. He just keeps moving, slow and easy, not nearly enough for either of them, letting it all skitter over Eames, knows Eames sore skin is rubbing against the sheets, and that he's never had to wait this long to come. He just needs a little more, he just need a bit more Arthur before he can just relax and give it to Arthur.   
  
If he did this bareback, he could fill Eames up, leave him wet and leaking, and then fuck the come back into him, keep massaging his prostrate slow and relentless and eventually Eames would just let him. Would just lie back and let Arthur have whatever he wanted.  
  
"So good for me." Arthur says, because Eames is, he is being good, he is, inherently good in value if not in moral fiber, he's precious. He is Arthur's favorite and Arthur rolls them up, keeps his arms.  
  
"Arthur, I can't. I can't." Eames presses his face to Arthur's neck and wraps his arms around him, legs shaking. "I can't."  
  
"You can. You just hold yourself up, there you go. That's perfect, you're doing it perfectly."  
  
"The condescension, Arthur, is-as always-appreciated." Eames says, shaky and he nearly sounds scared and Arthur grabs Eames by the hair and forces Eames to look at him.  
  
"I mean it. You're being so good. You're doing exactly what you should do."   
  
Eames stares at him, and he looks so fucking hopeful and Arthur could _kill_ , he could _kill_ everyone who made it so Eames couldn't believe he was good. He could kiss them, too. He could could kiss them, because if they had treated Eames right, then Arthur would have never had a chance. He's selfish enough to be thankful, he knows that, but that doesn't change the fact that he could rip them to pieces with his hands.  
  
He asked, once, if Eames wanted him to get his parents fired from the company. Arthur could. If he wanted. Eames hadn't replied for a long moment, had just thought about it, before shaking his head. Just said "Trick." as explanation, and that had been that.  
  
"You are mine." Arthur said. "You are good. You are my _good_ boy."  
  
Eames shuddered with it and Arthur fucked up into him, steady as he could.   
  
"Say it." Arthur said. "Tell me. Tell me what you are."  
  
"Yours." Eames manages and Arthur presses in a bit harder so the word is practically pushed out of Eames body.  
  
"Mine, yes, that part is easy, isn't it? I'm fucking you, I'm holding you, you're in my bed, of course you're mine. And eventually I won't need to be fucking your ass for you to remember that."  
  
Eames grips onto him again and Arthur wraps his arms around Eames body. "But the rest of it. Come on. You're my good boy. Tell me you're my good boy."  
  
"Can't." Eames shudders harder and Arthur stops fucking him, just sits, fully seated and Arthur reaches down and smacks Eames ass, carefully and Eames hitches on his lap, squeezes down are his dick and Arthur smacks him again, until Eames is rocking down and eventually he's rubbing his cock only Arthur's stomach and squeezes his fists closed. "Arthur. Arthur I'm going to."  
  
"Say it and you can." Arthur orders. "Tell me you're my good boy. Right now, Eames."  
  
"I'm your boy." Eames says and stares at him. "Arthur. I'm your. I'm your boy."  
  
"My _good_ boy. You've done everything else I've told you. Why can't you do this?"

 

####  [Re: Rule Ten (Part 193)](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=4094378#cmt4094378)

on 2011-03-29 12:03 am (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

Me: ALL OF THE COMMENTS ARE THAT NO ONE CAN BREATHE.  
Roommate: Are you writing porn again?  
Me: THEY WANTED IT LIKE THIS.  
  
"I'm not good." Eames whispers and Arthur bites him, doesn't think, just presses his teeth into Eames neck, hard and Eames jerks under him, shouts and Arthur twists his head away, teeth dragging over skin.  
  
"You don't get to decide if you're good or not. You're mine. You gave yourself to me, and _I_ decide if you're good. Tell me what I want to hear, Eames."  
  
Eames pauses, so Arthur bites him again and Eames cries out, but doesn't ask for him to stop, just lets Arthur bite him.  
  
"Do you want me to mark you more?" Arthur asks, "because I will. I will leave you aching and sore in the morning, and then I'll fuck you again, even if it hurts a bit, until it sinks into your head that I'm not letting go. I know it took me a long time. I know it did, but I gave the rest of the world a chance, and they didn't take me up on the offer, so now you're _mine_ , and you are going to damn well keep being mine. You don't need to believe that yet. But you will."  
  
Eames shakes his head.  
  
"All you have to do to get off is tell me that you're my good boy. That's it. Doesn't your cock hurt?" Arthur asks, rubbing the skin of Eames belly, around where his cock kept smearing pre-come and Eames nodded. "It must hurt. It's been forever, hasn't it? And you've waited for me. You've waited for me and that was good." Arthur gently gets Eames back on the bed and keeps his movements slow, gradual, and Eames is going to hurt too much to get out of bed tomorrow, and that's the plan. Arthur's going to take care of him.  
  
He bends down and sucks Eames nipple into his mouth, plays with it, gently at first and then slowly closing his teeth around until Eames is rigid under him, then he lets go, breathes over it. "Just say it, Eames."  
  
Arthur repeats the process, slowly, carefully, as Eames continues to be unable to get the words out, and he doesn't think Eames is refusing on purpose. Eames can lie when he wants to, except, apparently, he can't, right now. Which is...interesting.   
  
"I'm your." Eames chest pushes up into Arthur's mouth and then tries to hide in the bed when he puts his teeth down, even though Eames had to know Arthur was going to. "Boy. Your boy. Your favorite thing. I'm your favorite. And you take good care of your. Things. I'm your favorite thing and you take good care of your things, so you're going to take good care of me." Eames manages and it's like Arthur has dislodges the thoughts right out of Eames head and and still, Eames can't _say_ it.  
  
"I do." Arthur says. "I take excellent care of my things. And I have only the best things, and since you are my favorite, what does that make you?"  
  
Eames looks at him and Arthur strokes a finger down Eames cock and Eames pushes up into it and then just stays there, arched a moment.  
  
"I won't stop until you say it. Even if I come I have toys. I can just keep fucking you until you tell me. Even if you come, I'll just get you hard again, until you tell me. I know it's difficult."  
  
"I'm disobeying you right now. How can I be good?" Eames blurts and then shoves his face into the mattress, because who knows where the pillows have gone off to?  
  
"You're trying." Arthur says. "You waited for me. You're waiting for me now. You've been patient, you've been good. You have been so incredibly good, you've done everything I've wanted you to." Arthur shoves in and he doesn't mean to come, he doesn't, but he can't help it, when Eames is gasping underneath him and clutching to him and Arthur has to think about all the times he had to shove Eames away and he didn't want to. He wants to hold on and keep him forever, horde him to himself, and right now he doesn't care if Eames only loves him because he's the only good thing going on in his life, he'll take it.  
  
Arthur can't see, or breathe or think for a moment, everything just burned out of his head, everything ripped out of him, and maybe it's ecstasy, maybe it's pain, he doesn't know, can't think enough to gauge what he's feeling, just that it rips everything loose inside him. Maybe his heart stops. He doesn't know.

 

####  [Re: Rule Ten (Part 194)](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=4096938#cmt4096938)

on 2011-03-29 12:38 am (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

"I'm your good boy," Eames says, when Arthur brutally snaps back into the moment, body completely exhausted. "I'm. I'm good for you." Eames says, holding him, up, pressing every bit of skin they have together. He repeats himself, mumbling and Arthur pulls out, carefully and it hurts and Eames doesn't even wince. Just keeps holding on and repeating himself and Arthur nods to the floor.  
  
"Your knees."  
  
Eames moves, scrambles and he's hits the ground, staring up at Arthur, knees spread and Arthur lowers a foot and puts it on the floor. Eames stares at it and Arthur wiggles his toes. "Go on then."  
  
Eames blinks and stares for a long enough moment that Arthur moves forward, presses his leg between Eames knees. "You like my foot, fuck up against it until you come."  
  
Eames flushes to his ears, but moves closer to Arthur foot and hordes around it almost greedily, like Arthur will take it back. Arthur presses up agaisnt Eames' balls and Eames moans, slowly thrusting against Arthur's shin, pressing his face Arthur's thigh and moving, hips shy and jerking, before he just couldn't help himself and rubbed with purpose.  
  
Arthur slid his hand through Eames hair until he came on his leg, hot and wet and Eames shook with it, sobbing, mouthing kisses against Arthur's leg.  
  
Eames collapsed against his legs and Arthur had to manhandle him back onto the bed, curled up in the middle.  
  
"I'll be right back."  
  
Eames mumbled and Arthur found a pillow tucked in next to the wall and put it in Eames arms. "You were beautiful, just stay right there, okay?"  
  
Eames nodded and Arthur kissed him. "Good."

\---

  
  
Arthur cleans himself off quickly before going downstairs and grabbing the sandwiches he'd gotten earlier, and a waterbottle, trekking back upstairs where Eames was still curled up around the pillow, face smashed into it.  
  
He'll clean Eames in the bath, when he's feeling a bit better, the warm water will be good for him, and he'll get to touch him so more. His fingers itch and he tugs Eames back into his arms, snugging right in the middle of the bed, tucking himself around the right curl of Eames body.  
  
"Arthur." He mumbles and Arthur tucks him hand in the middle of the tangle Eames has made of himself and Eames flips over, wrapping himself around Arthur and not...crying. He isn't crying. But he's shaking and Arthur can't help but make those stupid sounds people make when someone else is upset.  
  
For several long, gasping breathes, Eames just gripes onto him. He's limp weight, mostly, except for the fierce hold of his fingers and legs, but those turn, slowly, into dead weight on his body as he keeps petting and shushing. Fine tremors shake through Eames, like he's cold, and maybe he is, with all that sweat. Arthur grabs the untucked bedcovers and tug the corners over the two of them, until they're in a little pocket of air, just for the two of them, nearly overheated, but Eames seems to slowly stop shaking.

 

####  [Re: Rule Ten (Part 195)](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=4100266#cmt4100266)

on 2011-03-29 12:59 am (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

Assuming work does not turn me into a sobbing, but otherwise spiritless zombie, More Tomorrow  
  
Arthur can't figure out how to say anything, word seem to complex and distant, right now. He wanted nothing other than to keep himself and Eames knotted up under the blankets, to tuck Eames into all his limbs until they just melted together. Never leave this bed. That way Arthur would never have to stop feeling powerful and centered, and Eames would never have to stop looking at him like that.  
  
When Eames is entirely limp weight, and Arthur has started pressing random, stupid kisses on any patch of skin he can reach, Eames manages a: "I didn't."  
  
Arthur keeps petting his hands over Eames body, doesn't care that he's tacky with sweat, and the room smells, and that he'll need to clean _everything_ , just that Eames is here, and he's warm and Arthur can touch him.   
  
"I didn't." Eames tries again. "I didn't. Like last year. I didn't do that. Thing." Eames hands clench and open fingers rubbing against Arthur's spine. "I thought I would. You did more this time. But I didn't go... anywhere."  
  
Arthur takes a moment to log on to the conversation, because he's sort of stupid after he gets off and squeezes the leg Eames has wedged between his own, kisses along his jaw. Subspace. If it had been subspace last year, fuck if Arthur knew. But Eames had blissed out then, and hadn't now.   
  
"You won't always. Or even often. From what I understand you have to work at it. You were nervous, weren't you?"  
  
Eames nods.   
  
"I think, last year, you felt safe, didn't you? You felt safe and wanted and that made you happy. This time you didn't. There was more pressure." Arthur doesn't know. He hadn't ever seen anything like subspace before Eames did his...thing. Last year. He didn't know how it worked. Didn't know if it existed, didn't really know what it meant. "And maybe, eventually, we can get you there again. But if you didn't, it doesn't mean we did it wrong, as long as we had fun."  
  
Eames relaxes a bit more under his arms and sighs agaisnt Arthur's collarbone and Arthur goes back to kissing everything he can reach.   
  
"Did you?" Arthur asks, because suddenly he's worried Eames didn't enjoy himself. "Have fun?"  
  
"Not fun," Eames had said, still snuggled close and Arthur doesn't freeze at that. Not right away. He'd had fun, but of course he'd had. He'd finally gotten to have Eames the way he'd always wanted him. But. And. But if Eames hadn't Arthur needed to know. They could figure something out. He'd figure something out. He'd...he'd do something. "Fun is what you have on like. Fucking moonbounces."  
  
Arthur keeps petting, refusing to make Eames think he'd done anything wrong. Eames liked being touched, Arthur knew that much, and Eames pushed up into the petting, hedonistically enjoying himself the way he hadn't previously. Arthur's not going to ruin that.  
  
"So...?" Arthur asks, when he knows his voice will be steady and Eames flops back into the bed.   
  
"Fuck. Arthur." Eames curls around his that fraction tighter. "Just. I loved it. I love you. Fuck. I've been waiting forever and I got what I wanted. What the fuck do you want me to say?"  
  
"That'll work." Arthur promises and Eames goes back to being a limp, practically-purring, ball of contentment and Arthur is going to take acre of him. He's going to take excellent care of him, he's going to feed him, and wash him up, and clean him out, and let him rest, and then he's going to make a mess of him again. And he's going to keep doing it, until Eames is covered in marks, and sore everywhere, and fucked out, and believe Arthur when Arthur says _mine_

 

####  [Re: Rule Ten (Part 195)](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=4114858#cmt4114858)

on 2011-03-30 01:37 am (UTC)

Posted by  [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

Everything following this point is completely gratuitous aftercare, and you love it.  
  
Arthur got them to the headboard, eventually, Eames still knotted against his side and Arthur was far from minding. He found the idea of Eames going as far as the other side of the bed to be distasteful. Eames breath skittered down his chest and Arthur grabbed Eames' sandwich, not grilled. It wouldn't have stayed good grilled, but it did have applewood bacon on it, so he figured that would equal out.  
  
"Here you go." Arthur said, and Eames didn't remove his hands, just opened his mouth and bite in, ripping through the foccaccia.  
  
"This has mushrooms." Eames said after a moment.  
  
"Grilled portabella mushrooms, mozzarella and avocado." Arthur said, because they weren't getting up for a bit and Eames needed something filling.   
  
"Used to think the only sandwich in the world was cheese." Eames took another bite out of Arthur hand, juice dripping down onto his stomach and Eames just licked it up. He didn't try and make it sexy, which was telling enough about how hungry he was. Arthur probably would give him his own sandwich too. He didn't mind.   
  
"I'd never even had a PB&J until my roommate was making one and just put an extra on my desk." Arthur said. "My mom made stuff like smoked salmon club sandwiches, and she'd pack us each these giant slices of cake for lunch. Or pie, or cheesecake bars, or brownies, something grand and ridiculous."  
  
"Damn." Eames said as Arthur trailed his nails down his back.  
  
"Yeah, I used to trade them for Jell-o cups." Arthur said and Eames laughed into his chest, eating the sandwich down by bites, and when he was done Arthur just grabbed the second half and let Eames at it, liking the bits where Eames sucked juice off his stomach and fingers. He'd fed Eames before. String cheese, mostly, or pretzels sticks, when Eames had his hands full of video games, and Eames would open his mouth and tilt his head and Arthur would put food in.  
  
"So it's Saturday, and we have Sunday to ourselves, and you took off Monday, and I took off Monday, so we can just. Stay here." Eames asked. "Right?"  
  
"Yeah." And Eames tilted his head up and Arthur kissed him, shallow and affectionate, lingering far more than he'd allowed himself previously and Eames pressed his head to Arthur's neck.   
  
"Are you going to tie me up? I mean. Properly, I guess."  
  
"Yes." Arthur said, rubbing at the skin under one of Eames bruised nipples. "I'm going to tie you up so you can't move."  
  
"And spank me?" Eames said. "Like, really get into it, not just. You know."  
  
"Yes." Arthur nuzzled over his forehead. "Until your ass is bright red."  
  
"And can we snog? For awhile? Between?" Eames asked. "Can we snog and then you can just roll me over and fuck me and, yeah, you can hold me down a little, but, you know."  
  
"Yeah.' Arthur said, because he could, probably. The dynamic was there, so. So the worst part of not knowing what to do with himself would be gone. If Eames wanted just the two of them, tangled in the sheets and screwing, Arthur could do that.   
  
He took the waterbottle and Eames drank, sucked it dry and gasped when he was done, wiping his mouth on Arthur's shoulder.  
  
"I'm not a napkin."  
  
"No that's me. Since I'm on your lap." Eames smiled again and Arthur started tickling him again and Eames laughed, kicking and flaily and then demanded Arthur stop, so Arthur did, the two of them sprawled and Arthur hand wrapped around Eames ankle, for whatever reason.  
  
"Come on." Arthur said, "Let's get you cleaned up."  
  
"Don't need to." Eames replied, but followed as Arthur drew him up and pulled him into the upstairs bathroom, with it's sizeable tub. Not exactly huge, and it'd be a close fit, but it would take the two of them, which was what mattered. He started the water, which maybe he should have done earlier, but he'd had an Eames in his bed, so he couldn't be blamed. Instead he keeps an arm around his waist and looking for the right bath salts.  
  
There's no point in taking a bath and not putting stuff in it. At that point just take a shower and call it a day. Baths are meant to be ridiculous, and Eames just sort of smiles at him without really caring what Arthur's doing

 

####  [Re: Rule Ten (Part 197) SHUT UP I KNOW WHAT PART WE'RE ON.](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=4116906#cmt4116906)

on 2011-03-30 01:55 am (UTC)

Posted by  [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

This is all I have in me for tonight, but there will be more tomorrow.  
  
Arthur eventually gets them into the steaming tub, wrapping himself around Eames, stroking over his stomach, and Eames relaxes completely against him, fingers knotted with Arthur's and unashamed and Arthur's chest hurts, in a good sort of way.   
  
"You're gonna spoil me." Eames mumbled as Arthur started washing him, lathering soap over a thick washcloth before covering Eames in heavy, white suds.   
  
"So be spoiled then." Arthur says, washing each of Eames fingers before submerging them back into the water. "Be a complete brat and eat all my food and take giant liberties with my personal space." He kisses Eames neck. "I don't mind."  
  
Eames hips shift up when Arthur starts washing his legs and Arthur looks down. "You're kidding."  
  
Eames flushes, then smiles a little. "But aren't you going to wash me?"  
  
"Such a little brat." Arthur nips at his ear, and doesn't care a bit about wrapping the soapy washcloth over Eames half-hard dick and rubbing and Eames moaned, pushing up against it. Arthur washed him, meticulously, leaving off his dick and Eames didn't complain, just rested against Arthur with an erection and a smile and Arthur cleaned between his toes and up his calves, until the water was pearly with soap and Eames was pink with heat and freshly scrubbed.  
  
"So, not your good boy?" Eames asked as Arthur started rubbing moisturizer in, because Eames had no sense of grooming, and Arthur wanted to pamper him, wanted more excuses to have his hands everywhere, to touch everything.   
  
Arthur kissed his shoulder. "Sometimes you're my good boy, and sometimes you're my brat, and sometimes you're my boyfriend. Whatever you need to be."  
  
Eames goes quiet and melts as Arthur starts washing his hair, pressing his fingertips into Eames scalp, rubbing down his neck and Eames is heavy and warm against him, not supporting himself at all and Arthur's got him.   
  
"You don't mind? If." Eames touches Arthur's knee, lazily. "If I'm not. Sometimes it won't be a game. Sometimes I'll actually. I have a temper."  
  
"I know." Arthur ran his thumbs up the tendons along Eames spine and then the give at the base of his skull. "I didn't do this thinking either of us were perfect. Did you?"  
  
Eames takes a long, sleepy moment to reply, and by then Arthur has rinsed his hair with fresh water from the tap and a cup and just sort of sitting in the water. "We'll be perfect together. We'll fuck up and be terrible, but except for that, we'll be perfect."  
  
Arthur thinks about that, and then just lets the thought drip away and Eames keeps pressing lopsided, sleepy kisses to his chest.  
  
"Come here, let's take care of that." Arthur says, and Eames slowly turns on his hip and curves his body to Arthur, yawning and then pressing that little smidgeon closer that you can only manage right before you fall asleep. He doesn't make Eames work for it, just hold him up and pumps at him, easy and warm and Eames breathes open mouthed against him, hips moving slowly, water sloshing in ripples around them. He doesn't say anything. Doesn't order anything. Doesn't ask anything. Just lets Eames be however he wants, for a moment.  
  
Arthur drains the bath as he gets Eames off once more, a quick, easy orgasm that turns Eames in a sleepy, mumbling affectionate creature. He hangs off Arthur as Arthur rubs them both dry and Eames walks slowly, yawning and warm and clean and exactly how one should keep your barely legal kept boy, except for when you get them completely covered in their own come, again.

 

####  [Re: Rule Ten (Part 198)](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=4125610#cmt4125610)

on 2011-03-31 10:16 pm (UTC)

Posted by  [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

Eames wakes up somewhere around 3 am. Arthur's asleep, arms limp over Eames, noses pressed to the back of his neck and breathing, soft and even.  
  
Eames stares at the wall. He's sore, his neck where Arthur kept biting him, and his ass for...a variety of reasons, but he doesn't mind it. It's not so much whether it's a good sort of sore or a bad sort of sore, but that it's a sore with a purpose. A sore with good memories. He's sore because of Arthur, and that means something.  
  
He rolls over a little, until Arthur adjusts himself sleepily, head on Eames shoulder and legs still limp over Eames shins. He's here. Arthur actually, really here.   
  
His mum is still his mum, the Prick managed to become more of a complete arse since they married, but whatever, and who knows when he'll see Trick again. None of that was resolved, he doubted it was ever going to be. You couldn't ever really get rid of your family.  
  
But he's sort of got Mal and Dom now. They aren't parents, they aren't going to get to fill that role for him, but they're...good. They're good people. And last year he'd fallen asleep plenty of times only to be woken up by Mal tapping his cheek like she did James and Phillipa and murmuring that it was time for bed.  
  
School was still piss, but Ariadne was good for him, and Robert sent him anywhere from one-to-ridiculous texts a day, depending on what was going on, and most of the texts were sort of beautiful insulting to whomever was being unnaturally boring at the moment. So that was good. They were friends who kept in contact, anyways, called him up to see if he wanted to do things, or just...talk. Better than his blokes back in England, fuck them.  
  
But he's got Arthur, or Arthur's got him, or they've got each other, something like that, and part of him...part of his is pretty sure Arthur will get rid of him, eventually. But it's not for awhile yet, he doesn't think, something about the way Arthur had looked when he'd declared that Eames belonged to him, something vicious that was momentarily pleased and sated, and that. That did more to convince him than anything in the past year had. Convince him that maybe they'd last awhile.   
  
"If you took me in to try and fix me," Eames said, quietly, because he doesn't actually want to have this conversation, "you did kind of a shit job."  
  
Arthur doesn't say anything and Eames tucks himself around Arthur like he had been before, when Arthur was huge and in control and he'd just...let it happen. Wanted it to happen.   
  
"But, if you ask me, we can do a better job of that now, huh? I mean, support structures are great, and all, Arthur. But you need a firm foundation to build them on, don't you? Something... good. Something stable." Eames quieted as Arthur shifted around a bit, stretching along the bed in tiny, tired movements and Eames just wants Arthur to be okay tomorrow. He wants them to be good for the rest of forever.   
  
"But I've got that now. Something to build off of, so you can stop worrying so much. We'll figure it out from here. Your shit. My shit. We're going to figure it out, or try to, as long as you decide I'm yours, okay?"  
  
He takes Arthur silence as acceptance. Maybe, part of him thinks, maybe this is as stable as it appears. Maybe they'll sit up on Mal and Dom's patio and make hot you thing jokes even when Eames is like, fifty, or whatever. Maybe they can just have that, even if everything else in the world is weird and fucked up and difficult. And if Arthur does try and set him on his way, if he decides Eames needs to explore the world? Well. Fuck it. He'll fight for it, anyways, which maybe? Maybe that's progress enough, for now.  
  
 **End**

 

 

####  [Re: Rule Ten (Author's Note)](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=4127658#cmt4127658)

on 2011-03-31 10:27 pm (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

I say end.  
  
This is very clearly not over. For one I need to take this entire rambling, melodramatic, _very sincere_ , but very poorly technically written saga and edit it. for which I will, eventually, be posting a post to get everyone to help me, and I'll save the details of that for said post. It'll take roughly forever, so stay tuned for that.  
  
However, if you're interested in more snippets/not-so-snippety-really from The Future Where Everything Is Happy, And How We Got There, then you should chill around here. Relax. Grab a drink. They won't be daily updates, as I need to a.) Edit, like I said and b.) WORK ON OTHER THINGS OH GOD, but I imagine more than once a week something or other will find its way here. Fret not my darlings.  
  
And, of course, everyone is welcome to write as many coda fics, spin of fics, fics from-the-year-I-did-not-end-up-writing, or whatever they feel like. With porn, even, now. Since I wrote porn, and now everyone can porn.  
  
So yeah. This has been one of the greatest experiences of my life. I cannot even communicate how much you all have made this singular and special. The sense of community, the discussions, the fanfanfic, the fanart, the energy and if I could I would just writing this forever. And I sort of maybe might end up doing so.  
  
See you to tell another BAM.

 

####  [Arthur Finally Gets His Scene Part 1](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=4165802#cmt4165802)

on 2011-04-13 06:38 pm (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

This is how Arthur likes it best:  
  
They wrestle a lot anyways, for the remote, for the last slice of pie, for the fun of it, just because they can. Not every time turns into a scene, they wouldn't get anything done if it turned into a scene, But there's always a sliding moment, a point where Eames will give him a look, or Arthur will tilt his head, and they can either keep doping it just for the fun of it, or it will change. There's no prep, there's no foreplay, really, it just goes from any old wrestling match into something tense and boiling hot. Eames' game require preparation, the things Arthur does just for that one particular look in Eames eye always need some pre-gaming, but not this. This is something they can just slide into.  
  
That's one of the reasons Arthur likes it.  
  
This time Arthur and Eames were just on the couch, Arthur reading over some of his inside-man reports on , trying to decide how best to treat their new decision to expand business into Australia.   
  
Eames is flopped over his lap, reading through his English homework with no-small-amount of grumbling. Arthur can't blame him, they're reading yet another soggily depressing book with all the bite of a slug. Eames, eventually, gets too bored to function and turns, pressing his face into Arthur's side. His nose is cold and Arthur shoves at him.  
  
"Bored," Eames nips at Arthur's side, smiling up at him and Arthur looks down. This is one of those times it's going to turn good. This is one of those times where it's good Eames had hidden little bottles of lube around the house like some demented version of the Easter bunny.  
  
"And you want me to entertain you?" Arthur asked and Eames stretched out, sliding his hand over Arthur's stomach.  
  
"Well I'm your guest, yeah? You should entertain your guests." Eames grins and Arthur doesn't mind taking a break. He'd expected this at some point tonight, and he's on schedule, he should give himself a reward.  
  
"A guest?' Arthur asks, because Eames lives in Arthur's house. He does chores and sometimes tries to surprise Arthur by making dinner, and then failing to make dinner, and then ordering a pizza and flopping around like a sad panda because for whatever reason he just *can't* follow instructions when they don't come straight from Arthur's mouth. When Arthur had read a recipe outloud Eames had done it fine. When he had top do it himself he just flopped around helplessly until something atrocious reared it's more-than-slightly-burnt head and roared its way right into the trashcan.  
  
Eames smiles and Arthur puts his papers away, placing his reading glasses ("You're getting old" "You're right, I should find an age appropriate boyfriend while I'm out getting my denture cream and penis car.") on top of them. "If you're a guest you sure have been over staying your welcome."  
  
Eames doesn't even frown at that, which is good. Arthur likes that Eames is completely self-assured about his place in Arthur's life. Arthur can joke and Eames never gets a hard, shocked look in his eyes, like he believes what he's being told, knows he shouldn't, but can't help himself.  
  
"Have I?" Eames rolled onto the floor and got up on his knees, resting his head on Arthur's knee. "Are you sure? I've made sure to help around the house. Keep you from being too overworked."  
  
"Is that what you call it?' Arthur asks, running his fingers through Eames hair and gripping on and Eames puffs up, mock offended and that's good. That's perfect. It's no fun if Eames just gives in. Oh, sure, sometimes it's nice, sometimes it's good when Eames just bows his head and takes what's on offer. But that's not how Arthur wants it right now. He wants the struggle. He wants to win, and only then for Eames to show his belly.  
  
"Yeah." Eames lifts up, puts his hands on either side of Arthur's legs. "That's what I call it. You want to make a compliant about how I suck your cock?"  
  
Arthur tilts his head and pushes up past Eames. It's not wise to wrestle in the living room. Too many sharp corners and breakable things. He has a home gym for a reason. Eames stumbles up to follow him. "Hey, this isn't very entertaining, and I'm bored."  
  
"You're a brat, is what you are."

 

####  [Re: Arthur Finally Gets His Scene Part 2](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=4166058#cmt4166058)

on 2011-04-13 06:40 pm (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

  
Eames jumps in front of him and blocks the hallway. He's bulked up a bit more, grown as much as he's going to, still a few inches shorter than Arthur, but he's determinedly filling out and Arthur likes it when he can just sit and touch all those muscles, can wrap his hand around Eames' bicep and let it fill up under his palms. "Stop ignoring me."  
  
Arthur stares at him a moment. The hallway is close quarters, sure, but the carpet is padded, and there are no sharp corners. He's effective in hallways, if you give Eames too much space, he starts using it to his advantage. He's not very flexible and he doesn't know how to utilize a small space, and he knows this. That's why Eames chose the hallway, because he knows it gives Arthur yet another advantage. Eames is a thoughtful man.  
  
He can't tackle Eames to the ground, but he can get him by the knee and land him. Eames never knows how to best stand and keep his balance. He's top heavy, which works to Arthur's advantage. Eames rolls over and Gets Arthur on the ground, and this would be better, he thinks, if they were naked and oiled, but needs must, and Arthur slips out before Eames can close in around him.  
  
  
The part Arthur likes, besides being in close contact with every bit of Eames in an active, participatory way, or the way Eames gasps into an open handed slap, or the way Eames doesn't pull his punches, landing them where they won't do any actual, lasting damage-to either of them- is the visceral, animalistic feeling that he deserves it when he wins. He likes winning.  
  
He's a careful person, he doesn't want to scare Eames, or go to fast, and he can never help but feel just the tiniest niggle of guilt when he does something that edges on too much, but when they're like this, then the details burn out. It's just him and Eames, rolling down the hallway and struggling to pin the other down, Arthur slipping out of Eames bulky, awkward holds, and muscles straining, the only thing that matters is how he's going to win. How he's going to get the best of Eames, how he's going to use that shiny-eyed need in Eames eyes against him.  
  
  
He gets Eames leg out from under him and pounces, but Eames shoves him into the wall, leaning his bulk into his hold, but he never knows where to put his hands and elbows to make it effective. He's getting better, he knows what Arthur does and he uses it against him. But, of course, the brunt of it is that Eames wants to end up on the bottom. he just wants to make it worth it. He wants Arthur to slap him across the face and he wants Arthur jam his elbow into his spine. He just has to fight back enough for Arthur to feel comfortable giving them.  
  
Arthur is never more grateful to his over-protective father then he is here. Not because he knows how to fight, exactly, but because he know how to hit and slap and scratch where it won't do any damage. He won't bruise Eames kidneys, or damage his joints. It's all surface damage, all of this is just surface damage, and he knows how to keep it like that. And Eames never lands any blows on Arthur because he knows he doesn't know how to do it without hurting him. It works. It's not about make Eames hurt, it's about proving that Eames belongs under him. He wants to prove it to himself, he wants a moment where he sees Eames pinned and feels entirely, wonderfully, perfect comfortable with the fact that Eames is there and not anywhere else.  
  
It's a short-circuit to Arthur's guilt, he can burn it out if he wins, and he can't help but love to win. And Eames keeps making it harder, because he's learning. One day he might even win, maybe, if he wants it. And they'll see what happens after that, but right now Eames wants to be pinned, wants Arthur's knee in the small of his back and his arms pined up behind his back and no leverage to his name.

 

####  [Re: Arthur Finally Gets His Scene Part 3](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=4166314#cmt4166314)

on 2011-04-13 06:40 pm (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

  
"One," Arthur breathes, feeling Eames rock underneath him, writhing for a hold, trying to reach back and get Arthur, and if this was an actual fight then he knows this wouldn't happen. Eames would fight dirty, would go for the disabling blow, for the eyes and the knee and if it was an actual fight, Arthur would make it fast and brutal and his attacker wouldn't be pinned, they'd be on the ground screaming. It's play. They're playing.  
  
"Two," He keeps his fingers tight and Eames keeps writhing, but he's flushed, and he wants this, and he's only pretending because that's what Arthur wants. The count of five is important, though. It offers a moment of transition, for Eames to get into his space, and if he's not there, he can fight back in earnest, and they can keep going until he is. Or until it becomes apparent that he's just not going to. It's a deciding moment.  
  
"Three." Eames is stilling underneath him, body warm and relaxing under Arthur, which makes Arthur smile. Eames can't help but like being under Arthur. He wants Arthur to do this to him. His entire body reflexively relaxes when Arthur is nearby, pushes up into his touch even when he's asleep. There's no guilt here, because Arthur won, and Arthur won both because he's the better fighter and because Eames wanted to lose. There's no space for argument or discourse. He won. Eames lost. Arthur gets to collect his spoils.  
  
"Arthur," Eames mumbles and Arthur doesn't let up, even though Eames has gone completely limp under him, even though he'd be under Arthur showing his neck and belly if Arthur would let him up. He's submitting with every bone of his body and Arthur isn't going to let up. Eames isn't asking him to. Maybe he wants Arthur to hold on harder. Maybe he wants Arthur to bruise him. Maybe he wants to ache tomorrow, as he goes to summer school (because one of the unspoken rules is that Eames is going to graduate high school, and he's going to do it with decent enough grades that he could do something with them, if he ever decides he wants to.), so he can remind himself why it's worth it.  
  
"Four." Arthur whispers, feeling himself slide into his role, feeling it settle around him. No. Not around him. It's entire internal, a shift in his mind, like the stage has been cleared and they're going to do the next scene in an empty black box. It's minimal an austere and he loves it. Eames takes up the entire scene and Arthur can do whatever he wants, he's won that right. He wrestled this large, strong man to the ground, he'd taken him down and now he can do whatever he feels like. And Eames wants him to, he lost and now he submits and Arthur gives the final count and that last, tiny, invisible threads of tension running through his body snap and Eames is a limp, giving, thing underneath Arthur.  
  
Arthur gets up and leaves him there. Eames stays, doesn't look up, doesn't move. If Arthur wanted something from him, Arthur would say so. Would drag him to his feet. Would haul him to a bed and shove him over the side, spreading Eames legs for him. Arthur contents himself a moment with how Eames waits for him, then removes his tie. It's one of the few he has that isn't slippery or slick. When he ties a knot it stays, unlike any of his silks or satins.

 

####  [Re: Arthur Finally Gets His Scene Part 4](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=4169130#cmt4169130)

on 2011-04-13 08:10 pm (UTC)

Posted by  [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

He bends down and gets Eames arms behind his back, tugging them tight and Eames grunts, but doesn't complain. He doesn't have the right to complain. He lost. He only has the right to take what he's given, or stop it entirely. Arthur wrap his tie around each wrists and then binds between the two, before wrapping the excess length around them both and tying it off. If the tie gets stretched out of shape or otherwise ruined he won't mind. That tie exists solely so he can remove it and put it around Eames wrists. All of his brown ties do.   
  
Anything he gets in that particular shade of brown exists expressly so he can somehow use it on Eames. Belts, ties, cuffs, collars, pillows, anything. That color is Eames' color, and if he gets a blanket in that color, then that is Eames blanket, and Eames can expect Arthur to use it for something devious at some point. Arthur doesn't exactly like how the color looks on Eames, no, it's not about that, it's about a color neutral enough that it doesn't distract. It makes Eames fit in with Arthur's things, and Arthur likes it when Eames matches his things. What he can't get in that shade of brown, he gets in a sky blue, because it entertains him.  
  
Eames stays with his face mashed into the carpet, and breathes. He sits and breathes and Arthur hauls him up and looks him over, partly for injuries, partly because he can. He hauls Eames t-shirt up, fits the edges behind his head and leaves it on his arms. There's some red marks on his chest, a strip of rug burn on his lower back, maybe a few places that might turn into light yellow bruises later. Nothing serious and Arthur touches the few rough patches with his fingers, and Eames lets him. Of course he does. Arthur won, so now Eames has to take whatever Arthur chooses to do. If he didn't want to, he would have won, or, at the very least, tried harder. He has, before. Sometimes it takes ages for Eames to hit a place where he's comfortable being like this. Sometimes they're both covered with scratches and bruises and bitemarks and Eames will fight until he physically can't anymore, and then, _then_ he will go limp, and struggle to do as he's told. But that isn't often, Eames rarely needs to be taken down. He likes doing as Arthur tells him.  
  
He takes Eames pants off and doesn't wait for Eames to step out before he's pulling him up the stairs and Eames is struggling to keep standing. Arthur's got a hold on him, and when Eames finally gets the jeans off, he's leaning heavily on Arthur's support and Arthur likes that. He likes how Eames is panting and staring at him, the long fall of his bangs getting in his eyes, because at some point Eames decided to do something strange with his hair and keep it closely cut except for the fall on top. Arthur hasn't said anything, because when it comes to Eames, a strange haircut is really quite tame in the realm of body modification. Arthur's surprised he hasn't pierced himself somewhere yet. Maybe he wants Arthur to do it.  
  
Arthur tosses him onto the bed, facedown, and Eames struggles to find his footing, spreading his legs wide to keep his balance, or maybe because he's trying to be helpful. Eames keeps himself barefoot most of the time, so Arthur never has to pause and take his socks off when he decided he wants to strip down his boy, so he's naked except for the t-shirt which isn't offering him any protection at all, and is instead curling his shoulders back.  
  
"Turn over." Arthur says, because he wants to see the curve of Eames chest. Eames swallows and struggles to right himself and flop onto his arms, not taking the opportunity to shove himself more fully on the bed, because if Arthur wanted him more fully on the bed, Arthur would have **put** him there. Arthur instead enjoys the slight strain of his thighs, and the way his stomach goes tense trying to keep himself stable. But Arthur could use as Eames as a bench and Eames would be fine. They'd tried that, once, using Eames as a footstool, but Eames got bored, and then rolled over and started sucking on Arthur's toes, and that was just more agreeable anyways.

 

####  [Re: Arthur Finally Gets His Scene Part 5](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=4172202#cmt4172202)

on 2011-04-13 10:00 pm (UTC)

Posted by  [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

This is longer than I intended. More...later?  
  
"Stand up," Arthur says and Eames braces his legs under him and rolls up. Eames is beautiful, yes, but also beautifully put together. Eames reaches his feet and bows his head.  
  
"Come here," Arthur says, just to see Eames walk. How eager he is to get closer to Arthur. Arthur gripes him by the shoulder, halting him a few inches away and Eames stops. He couldn't do a thing to stop Arthur, if Arthur decided to hurt him a little. If Arthur decided to lean down and take his nipple into his mouth and bite.  
  
He just strains, stays still for Arthur. He conquered it, so now it's his. Those are the rules, after all. Arthur slowly removes his teeth from Eames chest, pulls back to trace the indent of his teeth, to smear saliva over the marks, just to see Eames struggle for him.  
  
Arthur steps back all at once and Eames looks like he wants to follow, but he stays where Arthur put him. Arthur has an entire toy box full of things for Eames: things to put on him, or inside him, things to tie him up or down, things to hold him back or shove him over. Right now Arthur doesn't want to do anything to Eames that he can't do by himself.   
  
If Eames hurts it will be because of Arthur's teeth, or his hands. If he feels good it will because of Arthur's touch. Arthur wouldn't even use the tie if Eames had any ability to hold himself still at all.  
  
Arthur decides that today, he favorite part of Eames is his chest and stomach, both of them jutted out and presented to him like Eames wants Arthur to do things to them. Arthur puts away his jacket and waistcoat, letting his suspenders hang loose. He gets up on the bed and Eames stands still where Arthur put him.  
  
"Come here." Arthur says and Eames turns and moves closer, standing by the bed. He's biting his lip and Arthur reaches up to tug it out of his mouth, because if he wants Eames' lip bitten he'll do it himself. "I want to play with you."  
  
Eames swallows and then slowly climbs into his lap, spreading his legs so Arthur can play with whatever he feels like. Arthur smiles at this and Eames' face lights up, keeping himself up even though it'll strain his thighs. He'll say something if it starts to hurt.   
  
Arthur spends a moment petting him, getting a feel for the musculature under Eames skin, letting Eames know where he intends to focus most of his attention today. Eames sucks his lip into his mouth again. Arthur slaps him lightly against the cheek. "Stop that."  
  
"Sorry," Eames drops his head and Arthur offers up his thumb. Eames turns his head to suck it in, eyes closing and mouth working. Arthur draws a knuckle over Eames navel and the splays his hand over Eames belly. It's relaxed and soft, but if he pressed Eames will take it as a hint to tense up and show off. He likes the softness now. He likes the vulnerable parts right now.  
  
He pins Eames tongue down so Eames can't do anything but suck, and Eames looks up at him, lips plush around Arthur's knuckle. He loves the stretch of Eames neck as he tips Eames' head back, and he loves the noise that comes out of Eames mouth when Arthur bites his other nipple. For symmetry.  
  
He spends more time on this one, because Eames sucks harder on his thumb, so Arthur has to suck harder as a matter of honor, and he can use his tongue, while Eames' lies pinned and wet and flexing. Arthur splays his hand over Eames stomach and pushes so Eames slowly rolls back, Arthur's thumb popping free and Eames mouth stays open in its wake.  
  
"Good," Arthur says. "Stay."  
  
Eames shifts and then arches himself more, so Arthur can bite where he feels like.  
  
"Arthur." Eames whines and shifts, and Arthur tugs Eames legs out from under him to release the strain and Eames relaxes again, keeps his legs splayed and out of the way.  
  
"Up on your elbows." Arthur orders and Eames struggles upwards, tilting his head and Arthur knows a bid for a kiss when he sees one, and there's no reason he shouldn't. Eames lips are soft, and they give under his, and Arthur gets distracted. He wants all of the soft bits of Eames right now, he wants everything that is vulnerable, and Eames mouth is supple under his and his tongue is tentative against Arthur's.

 

####  [Re: Arthur Finally Gets His Scene Part 6](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=4178090#cmt4178090)

on 2011-04-14 10:51 pm (UTC)

Posted by  [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

Finish this this weekend.  
  
Arthur presses his nails into Eames sides, underneath his ribs, where he's only muscle and give. He strikes his hand over the curve of Eames stomach, just for the flesh, hollow sound and Eames jerks underneath him. The skin stains red under his hand and Arthur lays another blow over Eames nipple and Eames accepts them, stares up at him and Arthur grabs him by the chin.  
  
"Do I get to hit you?" Arthur asks, turning and slapping the inside of Eames thigh.  
  
"Yes." Eames says and Arthur slaps him across the face, with just enough force for Eames to feel it. Not nearly what Eames would want if he turned his ass up for Arthur's hand. Eames smiles and Arthur kisses the pink mark on his cheek, runs his knuckles along Eames' throat.  
  
"Why?" Arthur asks, nuzzling his cheek along Eames' "Why do I get to hit you?"  
  
This is what Eames doesn't do easily, the talking. He turns his head and Arthur grabs him by the armpits and hauls him back up. "Come on. You know you'll feel better after you say it."  
  
Eames turns his head and it's not that he's ashamed, or that he doesn't want to, it's just that he can't do it right away. Arthur tosses him down on his front and shoves his legs up under him.  
  
"Come on. Why do I get to hit you?" Arthur strokes Eames back. "Just tell me. You're thinking it so loudly I can almost hear it."  
  
Eames fingers clench and he struggles against the tie. Eames has been wound up all day. Arthur put that tie on for work, and Eames knows what that color means. He's been sitting on that all day. Arthur hasn't had to do a bit of work.   
  
He bends down and nuzzles his lips against a spot on Eames ass, right at the curve of it. He open his mouth and carefully, carefully, bites down, past the point where Eames breath hiccups and holds on when Eames starts panting. It's the relentlessness that Eames can't stand. Spanking builds so he has time to adapt, a good hard, continuous bite gets beyond him too quickly.  
  
"Arthur," Eames begs and Arthur lets go. It'll bruise, and the mark will stay for a few days. As it should Eames gets bratty when he doesn't feel any marks anymore, but it's an easy solution and one Arthur is happy to provide. Arthur moves and bites down on another spot, hard and vicious until Eames is struggling. Arthur grabs him by the knees and holds on, moves again, every bite counting, holding on until Eames is rocking and struggling and he can tug Eames back to his chest and hold onto his stomach.  
  
"Tell me. Tell me right now why I get to bite and hit you."  
  
"I want you to." Eames mumbles, and tries his very best to shove his face into Arthur's shoulder. "I want you to win."  
  
Arthur hums, satisfied, and nips more playfully along the cords of Eames' shoulders, kneading at Eames stomach. He has decided if he wants to fuck him, Eames ass is soft and clinging and warm, it's a vulnerable thing and Arthur wants all of Eames vulnerabilities. But he doesn't want to be distracted, and fucking Eames is nothing if not distracting. Maybe he'll wear Eames down until he's a sleepy, incoherent weight, and then slip between his thighs, fuck the sweaty, soft clench of his legs.   
  
Right now, perhaps, he'll just slick his fingers up and slip them in, massage Eames' prostrate until he doesn't know which way is up. That would be fun. Then all of Eames would a soft, shaking, vulnerable thing, and Arthur wants that so suddenly, that it crystallizes as it hits the air, that he's already putting it into action before it's even really a thought.  
  
He lays Eames on his side and tosses one of Eames legs over his shoulder and rubs his slick fingers against Eames opening, and it spreads for him. Eames went from being shy to being slutty in about fifteen hours, and Arthur doesn't mind. He likes when Eames is greedy, when Eames has a earned a night in Arthur's bed and wakes up gagging for it, even though Arthur barely finished riding him hard and putting him away wet and dripping.

 

####  [Re: Arthur Finally Gets His Scene Part 7](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=4189610#cmt4189610)

on 2011-04-17 09:47 pm (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

Eames buries his face into the pillow, but the rest of his body just opens up for Arthur, twisting upwards so whatever wants to touch, he can. He isn't shy, exactly, Arthur doesn't think. It's not about being ashamed, or nervous, because he'll let Arthur do anything to him, he'll _beg_ Arthur to do things to him, but he'll shove his face agaisnt Arthur's neck, or in the pillow, and if Arthur doesn't bind his hands he needs to wrap his arms around something.  
  
"Look at me," Arthur commands, because that's the only difficult thing he can ask of Eames right now, and Eames turns his head and tries to keep his eyes open, but he can't quite manage the trick of it. "Look at me Eames."  
  
Eames spread his legs that little bit farther and then rolls onto his back, upwards, until he's sitting up on Arthur's hand. Arthur wraps his arm around Eames' stomach, guiding him up, pulling him in closer and slides his fingers in a bit more firmly. He knows Eames would prefer to be fucked rather than fingered, but Eames is greedy, and Arthur just wants to watch him fall apart. He won. He can do what he likes.  
  
"Good, there's my good boy," Arthur murmurs, and it was easy like this, it was easy to just say all the things Eames always wanted to hear, easy to watch the effect they had on Eames, because Eames first started to smile, then outright preen as Arthur kept going. "Fuck my fingers, easy, they're not as long as my dick so you have to be careful."  
  
"Why don't you fuck me with the real thing?" Eames asked, but he moved, trying to keep up with the way Arthur twisted and thrust his fingers inside him. Eames isn't very good at counter-rhythm, but he tries.   
  
"I won," Arthur says. "I won and so I get to play with you however I want. Maybe if you win, you can call the shots."  
  
Eames looks at him like the thought had never occurred to him before and Arthur pauses because it hadn't really occurred to him either. The idea of what it would mean if _Eames_ won. They stare at each other a moment before Eames smiles and clenches his slutty ass around Arthur's fingers. "Food for thought."  
  
"You couldn't beat me even if you wanted to." Arthur says, and that's true. For now. "And you don't want to. You like it when I win." Arthur curls his fingers in and presses firmly against Eames' prostrate, and if he could, he would fry up the sound Eames makes and eat it for dinner. "Does it hurt?"  
  
"Yes," Eames struggles to get his balance. "It'll be good, if you fuck me. I always make it good, yeah?"  
  
"Shh," Arthur sinks another finger in and Eames calms down slightly and Arthur hasn't tried fisting yet, but Eames has made noises about wanting to, and right now Arthur can't help but love the idea. Eames would love it, would be full and stretched and aching, and Arthur wouldn't be distracted. It would be better than toys, because he could do it with his hands, and they could both have what they wanted.  
  
He'll look into it more later, but right now four fingers seems to be doing the trick and he pushes Eames down onto his front, ass up in the air and watches as Eames humps the air, staring back at Arthur, because Arthur hasn't told him to look away yet. His bitemarks are still livid and sharp against Eames skin and Arthur takes a moment to appreciate them.  
  
This is all he wants out of a scene. He wants to win, and then he wants to be able to put Eames where he can see him. He doesn't like surprises, he doesn't like mess, but he does like arranging Eames over his sheets. He does like being able to say a command, and have it acted out in response. He does like knowing what's going to happen, and he has everything he wants right now. He'll make Eames come on the sheets, helpless and moaning, and it never takes very long. Eames doesn't know how to control himself, and Arthur figures he can teach Eames how to later. Right now he likes that Eames can't help himself. It's predictable, and orderly and Arthur enjoys that as much as any other reaction Eames gives him.  
  
Eames pants as Arthur takes out his fingers and wipes them off on the sheets. He rolls Eames onto his side and slips his dick between Eames' thighs.

 

####  [Re: Arthur Finally Gets His Scene Part 8](http://skellerbvvt.dreamwidth.org/71338.html?thread=4192170#cmt4192170)

on 2011-04-17 10:49 pm (UTC)

Posted by [**skellerbvvt.livejournal.com**](http://skellerbvvt.livejournal.com/)

"Now you're just being mean." Eames mumbles and Arthur nips at his throat.  
  
"I'll do what I like to you. I should just keep not fucking you, make it a special treat. Something that needs to be earned."  
  
Eames whines, and Arthur can't tell if he loves the idea more than he hates it, or the other way around, but it's something to think about. Arthur rests his hand over Eames stomach and moves slowly, deliberately, and maybe Eames will get hard again, and maybe he won't, but right now this is what Arthur wants. And he can have it, because he won.  
  
"I could make you wait weeks, if I wanted. I could even stop fingering you. Could you hold out weeks? Or would I find you in your room, one day, with a toy, or your own fingers, trying desperately to make yourself feel half as good as I make you feel?"  
  
"You think you can have me in your bed and not fuck me? Not _once_."  
  
Arthur grins against Eames shoulder and frees Eames hands, tugs the t-shirt off him entirely and gives him the pillow to grab onto.  
  
"Do you want to find out?" Arthur asks. "Either way, you'll get fucked, but if I win, you won't get to come." And as if to make his point he goes off right then, right as Eames squeezes his legs closer and presses into Arthur with everything he has, muscles standing out tense and ready.  
  
Eames rolls over and grabs onto Arthur. Arthur plays with Eames' dick and just enjoys the feel of himself on Eames.  
  
Arthur tucks Eames that little bit closer and begins jerking Eames off instead of just rubbing his come into Eames skin. "How many days do you think you can last? Do you feel empty without me?"  
  
"No. Maybe. Yes," Eames admits.  
  
"It'll be the only thing you'll be able to think about." Arthur likes the idea the more he thinks about it. He likes fucking Eames, of course he does. But he likes winning more. He likes the idea of his cock in Eames' ass being the only thing Eames can think about, even as he needs to get other things done. It would be delicious.   
  
He keeps playing with Eames' cock until it's red and hard and then he stops, because he can.  
  
"What if I win?  
  
"What happens if you manage to be such a slut that I just have to fuck you? Hmm." Arthur thinks, and trails his fingers down Eames' chest. "Then I'll take you to the Basement."  
  
Eames face goes blank a moment and Arthur finds he's stumbled into another one of those tangles in Eames' head he never thinks to actually mention outloud. "As your sub?"  
  
"Yes." Arthur wanted to get them figured out before he got them into the entire scene, but apparently Eames had been misreading that. "I'm going to make a spectacle out of you. It's going to be beautiful."  
  
Eames eyes go bright with hope and Arthur curls up to stroke him off and tell him all the ways he's going to make Eames a walking wreck, about everyone there is going to know Eames belong to Arthur, about what Arthur does to him and Eames goes glassy eyed and desperate, hanging on every word like Arthur could somehow lace is vowels with heroin.   
  
"Everyone is going to be jealous, either of me for having you, or of how I treat you." Arthur sucks an obvious, adolescently blatant mark on Eames neck, above where his shirt collar rests. "Everyone will stare at you. They'll want to touch you, and I won't let them. You're going to be beautiful, and perfect, and as far into your headspace as I can get you and I'm going to take such good care of you."  
  
"Because I'm your favorite thing?" Eames asks and when Arthur says yes Eames comes, hot and spilling over his fist, across his wrist, over his slacks and Arthur can get them cleaned. He doesn't care. He and his cleaner have a deep understanding based off them not asking questions or giving him a sideways look and him giving them money.  
  
He kisses Eames instead of rushing to clean himself off and Eames melts into his side, so happy he might as well be glowing with it. Arthur smiles too hard to kiss and Eames snuggles closer and latches on, warm and familiar.  
  
"I'm going to be the worst cock tease you've ever seen." Eames swears, and Arthur thinks that maybe he wants Eames to win this one.  
  
 **End**

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


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